Between a Rock and a Landslide
by maybemalapert
Summary: The decision to work with Derek comes at a greater price than Scott and Stiles thought. And while they all pay for it dearly, it is Stiles who bears the brunt of it. AU post 2x10.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings and further contents:** This story contains: sexual assault, trauma and rape recovery, panic attacks, nightmares, ableisms (by a teacher); and also, werewolf!Stiles.

* * *

He's neck-deep in the crapper. Fact is, he's so fucking far under the surface, there's no way he'll be able to free himself before he's hit the bottom, and if the bottom looks unattractive from this position, it'll look like hell once he's there, he's sure.

Stiles is royally screwed.

He's not sure whether Scott being there with him makes things better or worse; though he's got no such doubts about Derek's presence.

* * *

"I'm human," Stiles says, and repeats it for good measure because these dumbfucks look, well, dumb as fuck. They don't react, just keep on arranging overhead lights and cables and cameras. And a box. _The_ box. The one that has Derek Hale, _Derek Hale_, their resident I've-been-this-way-from-birth-and-know-s

hit werewolf, breathing in quickly and eyeing it with a pinched look that screams 'bad news for everyone in this wolfsbane-coated, silver-reinforced steel cage.'

It's a sad testament to Stiles's life that he now recognises the smell of wolfsbane without any problem.

"Look, I don't think I should be here. Or Scott, for that matter. Or even Mr. Growly over there in the corner. Being here is just not a good thing."

One of the men laughs. "Don't worry. You won't be here for long."

That wasn't ominous at all, nope. It also remains the only reaction he gets at all no matter what he says or does. The men just keep working, and Stiles finally throws his hands up and settles down next to Scott near the back of the cage, on the right. He tries not to think about the cameras and the equipment, and what they might mean. Honestly, he doesn't. But it's not like he can really stop himself when they're so very obviously _there_ and trained at him and Derek and Scott from the other side of the bars.

So, cameras. Movie cameras. Lighting. Two werewolves and a human in a partially barred off room.

Stiles was all but born with a finger on the mouse, and xtube and a host of other websites, some more hardcore, showing up in his browser history (briefly, he deletes them meticulously because his dad doesn't need to know what he wanks to, not that his dad snoops – okay, he snoops. Sometimes.). Anyway, what can he say, he's curious. Still, there's some stuff that's hot and then there's stuff that's slightly sick and hot, and then there's stuff that makes him want to gouge his eyes out and forget he's ever seen it.

Like, say, snuff vids. Some with really weird shit happening like tentacles fucking some poor girl and choking her till there's no movement. Stiles had _thought_ that the tentacles, at least, were some very good special effects and that maybe he hadn't seen what he'd thought he'd seen and the girl was still alive, but now Stiles knows about werewolves and kanimas and who the hell knew what else is out there, so why not Cthulu, too.

"Hey, eldritch abominations aren't a real thing, are they? Wait, no, you know what? If they are, don't tell me. Don't say a word."

Derek doesn't say a word, but Stiles kind of doubts it's because he asked him not to.

Beside him, Scott shifts restlessly. He'd been weirdly quiet ever since the sedative had worn off, and Stiles thinks it's probably because they're being kept by people who are treating them like freaks at a circus and can't wait to see what tricks they'd perform. That is, they'd looked at Scott and Derek that way; they'd looked at Stiles in a way that was even more creepy. At least, that's why _Stiles_ is freaking out, only Stiles talks more when he's freaking out and not less.

Or maybe it's because Scott probably hadn't expected Gerard Argent – and it had to be him – to come after him seeing how he had agreed to trade information, and just...Stiles isn't going to judge, but God, no, actually. He's judging. Hard.

Water under the bridge, for the moment. He can be angry later.

Stiles climbs back out of his own head when he notices a decrease in activity outside the cage. The men begin to leave the room, all but the last one of them ignoring their captives completely. _He_ opens the top of the box before turning to grin at Stiles in a way that has goosebumps rising on Stiles's skin almost immediately. Then he's out of the door as well.

Over in the other corner, Derek breathes out slowly. "There's two way this can go," he says, staring anywhere but at Stiles and Scott. "They'll be happy with either, and one of them might end with all of us making it out of this alive. At least for now."

"Awesome," Stiles says. "Let's go with that."

"I'm not a hundred percent certain I want that," Derek replies. His eyes flick to Scott rather unexpectedly because usually it's Stiles who receives the death glare of doom. Stiles wonders if he should be jealous before his brain catches up. Oh. _Oh._

Scott is only a second behind. "Why are you looking at me?" He's not doing 'innocent' convincingly. Stiles doesn't have a werewolf nose, but he doesn't need one to tell how fake the outrage is. The guilty slump to Scott's shoulders is very authentic, though.

Derek only stares at him. It's the 'you're seriously trying to pull this?' look in combination with the 'you've seriously disappointed me so much' look that Stiles's dad has (had to) perfected to an art form. Stiles is happy to notice that Scott is just as susceptible to it as he is because after only, like, a second Scott begins to squirm. There's a flush rising to his cheeks, and he's lowered his eyes.

Classic submissive behavior, a part of Stiles's brain offers up before listing every other gesture of submission he's ever researched for – reasons. Good reasons like werewolf behaviour; not bad reasons like having fodder for masturbation fantasies involving their resident alpha werewolf because that would be kind of pathetic or something.

Stiles misses Scott's reply, but going by Derek's expression it's another attempt at denial, and Stiles has to admit, Scott has guts. It's just not a good time to be having them.

"Dude," Stiles says, "I don't think you're helping with the whole keep-everyone-alive option, and I gotta say that seeing as how I'm the one most likely to bite the dust, I don't appreciate that one bit." Scott looks at him, giving the appearance of a kicked puppy, and Stiles decides to take control of the conversation. "Look, Derek, he's really sorry, he is. The whole thing with the meeting was to, you know, tell you." He hopes it was because if Scott double-crossed him, then he'd freaking help Derek kill him.

Scott lets out a breath that sounds more like a whine than anything else. "I didn't know they were going to turn up. I really wanted to talk and–"

"You knew about this." Derek is looking at Stiles, making his stomach drop to the bottom of his shoes; Stiles wants to hit himself for ever feeling vaguely jealous of not being glared at. It's not a glare exactly, anyways. Stiles is about 90 percent sure that there's a lot of hurt feelings in there, too. It makes him feel like shit.

"Afterwards," he blurts. "Scott didn't tell me till yesterday." He's not sure Derek believes him even though he should be able to smell that Stiles is telling the truth or whatever. Werewolf senses. It's just that Derek is turning his head away, not really giving him an answer or any indication about what he thinks.

After about a minute of silence during which both Stiles and Scott twitch like mad and Derek seemed to be doing breathing exercises or something, Derek finally asks, "Was it worth it?"

"He threatened my mom," Scott answers in a small voice, and yeah, that, that right there is why Stiles couldn't actually be totally angry with him. Stiles knows about moms and the idea of _losing them_ and, more than that, the reality of it.

It occurs to him that Derek does, too.

Derek rubs a hand over his face and mumbles something too low for Stiles to make out, which is really kinda unfair. Stiles wants to know what he said. He looks at Scott, but Scott refuses to meet his eye or anyone's eye, really, and a moment later it's a moot point anyway, because Derek's deigned to say something again and this time it's loud enough for Stiles to hear.

Only, going by the face that Derek's wearing, Stiles probably doesn't want to hear this; it's a bad face, the kind you show a kid when you tell him his mom is dead.

"You probably don't know, but alcohol doesn't work on werewolves," Derek says, and Stiles bites his tongue because actually, yeah, he does know that, but now's not the time to mention that. Or ever. "Our metabolism's too fast."

Okay, that didn't sound too bad yet. In fact, that sounded totally irrelevant to anything that's happening at the moment, but Stiles is fine with that.

"But that doesn't mean that there aren't some things," he nods toward The Box, "that work to lower our inhibitions. Kind of 'bringing your baser instincts to the fore'." Derek's sorta intoning the last part, like he's quoting something or someone.

"So you're going to get drunk. That doesn't sound too bad. I mean, the hangover might be hell, but – wait, baser instincts?" Stiles pauses, running that through his head. "Like killing and maiming and going rawr?"

Derek, that fucking asshole, _nods_.

"_Dude._ I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, yeah, but can't we talk about this? Like can we all have a group therapy session and work out all our issues before we share a group hug and a snuggle? Do werewolves have snuggle instincts? Because I'd so totally approve the shit out of that." Stiles can get down with snuggling. It fills him with a certain amount of glee to think that these cameras would film, like, hours of a hardcore werewolf hugfest instead of his violent and bloody death. That would totally serve those assholes right.

"There are no 'snuggle instincts'," Derek replies, looking like it physically pains him to use the word 'snuggle'. "But you're right that we have a better chance of redirecting our, our desires."

It only takes a second for that to sink in, but Stiles keeps holding off reacting to it because he cannot have heard that right. He cannot have understood this right.

"To what?" It's Scott asking, for which Stiles will forever be grateful because he doesn't think he could have.

Derek eyes flash to red. "What do you think, Scott?" he roars.

Stiles's heart just about jumps up and into his throat, and there's some kind of rushing sound in his ears and he can't tell if it's because he's never seen Derek this furious and frightened or if it's because he – they, that _that_ is their only option. "I, look. Okay, I seriously don't wanna have sex with you. Either of you. No offense, but dude, like, _fuck no_." Okay, partial lie, but also not. Because this right now? So not how he pictured things going. If he'd thought about things going anywhere for real, which he hadn't, not really, because this was Derek "I'll-rip-your-throat-out-with-my-teeth-Stiles" Hale.

"Yeah, that's – isn't there another way?" Scott asks. Derek looks about ready to either murder them both or bash his head into the wall. He launches into a monologue about being straight and Allison – a lot of Allison – until Derek interrupts.

"That's the other way; unless you can come up with a way to get us out of here."

Stiles bites back a laugh because if he starts he doesn't think he'll ever stop and this isn't funny, it's just hysteria. It's fuck or die; _fuck or die_. Stiles is caught in the middle of werewolf pon farr. "Am I Kirk or T'Pring?" He kinda wants to be Kirk; Kirk has to fight but he survives and doesn't have to have sex with Spock or that other guy, Stenn, Stonn or whatever.

He has a feeling he's probably T'Pring though, and Scott is Kirk. Stiles never gets to be the hero.

Derek's Spock, of course. There are similarities, like the stony expression.

Stiles starts to laugh.

Scott elbows him in the ribs, hard. It's not helping, so Stiles shoves a fist into his own mouth and tries to calm himself before he starts sobbing. That won't change anything and would make him feel embarrassed on top of it, and Stiles foresees a great amount of embarrassment in his near future anyway; he doesn't need to add to it by crying just before he loses his virginity in a porno, oh God.

"Right," he says, when he no longer feels like his brain will fly apart if he doesn't hold onto it. "Right, so we think sexy thoughts now?" He's never been less interested in sex. It's not that he doesn't think that Derek is attractive, you have to be blind not to see that. It's not even that Scott is his best friend and head over heels for Allison. It's just – he doesn't want to have sex, like that. In front of cameras, with a bunch of skeevy creepsters watching him. And he doesn't want to do it because he'd die otherwise. That's a shitty reason to have sex.

He says it out loud, and Derek sighs and leans back against the wall. His face kinda does this thing where it goes from being one big frown to just...looking tired. Tired and unhappy. Stiles can sympathize.

"What do you want me to do, Stiles? Baser instincts mostly come down to eating, fighting and fucking and the first two won't end well for you. So I ask again: what do you want me to do?"

Fix it, Stiles thinks. Fix it, so we don't have to do this. Do some funky alpha werewolf power thing and get us out of here.

But he doesn't say any of these things because they won't help and Stiles absolutely knows that if Derek could, he would, because he looks about as wretched as Stiles is feeling. He's probably never even thought about Stiles that way. And Scott. Oh God, Scott, too. "Okay," Stiles says. "Okay. So, how do we–?" He waves a hand, trying to mime what he means without actually miming what he means, or saying it.

Derek's looking at Scott now, though, and doesn't answer. It's only when Scott says "Yeah, okay. I guess, we gotta," that Stiles understands that Derek has just asked for Scott's consent, however dubious it is under the circumstances, and that the option of eating Stiles had still been on the table, at least for Scott. "I mean," Scott continues, "I don't want to, you know, not really, but I don't wanna kill Stiles either." He grimaces. Of course, Stiles remembers, Scott has experience with thinking his wolf got the better of him and he killed someone.

Derek nods and waits for both of them to look at him before saying seriously. "I'm the alpha; if there's going to be any chance of this not turning into a bloodbath, you need to submit to me."

"Woah, woah. Stop, wait." Scott raises his hands. "You're the alpha, and I joined your pack. Shouldn't this be a given?"

"Is it, Scott?" Derek asks, and he sounds just a little bit snide.

It so blatantly isn't, it's not even funny. Scott flinches a bit and drops his gaze; his eyes, Stiles notes, have turned wolf yellow, and Derek's never turned back now that he thinks about it.

"There's not much time left; it's already beginning to work."

Oh, God. Shit, shit, shit.

"Right," Scott says, breathes in deeply, and shifts forward onto all fours.

* * *

Scott's crawling towards Derek, head bent low, and Stiles can't really bear to look at him. It gives him a kind of weird feeling in his stomach, sort of somewhere between uncomfortable and involuntarily aroused. Not because of Scott exactly. More because he knows it's his turn in a moment, and even though this situation is beyond fucked up, Little Stiles still indicates a faint sense of interest at that, and Stiles hopes that neither of the werewolves with their super-noses notices. Fat chance of that.

There's no reaction from either of them, though, and Stiles thanks whatever being is running his shitshow of a life for small mercies.

Scott is, Scott is sort of hunching down now, and he's whining a little, sounds like. Stiles can't see his face because he's laid it down on the floor, sort of turning it to the side, but his nails have formed into claws and Derek's wolfed out, so there's a fair chance Scott has, too.

Derek's growling and flashing his teeth; he moves onto his hands and knees, too, and bends over Scott to – sniff him? No, more like hover over him with teeth at the ready, like saying, 'I could. I could so totally kill you, you know. You're pwned.' Though he probably wouldn't say pwned.

Scott rolls onto his back, and his legs drop to the side and even though he's wearing clothes it really looks kind of obscene. And yeah, he is totally wolfed out. Then Derek moves to kind of straddle Scott, blocking Stiles's sight

A few moments later, Derek's retreated and Scott is rolling onto all fours again. He moves to the left, giving Stiles room to approach Derek, who's looking at Stiles with an almost empty expression. No, not empty. Patient. Like he's got all the time in the world and is totally confident that Stiles will come and submit, too; like, no doubts. None.

Stiles would like to feel this confident about getting his way once in a while.

"Stiles."

"Yes. Coming." Fuck, mind, don't go there. Stiles shoves the thought back down and begins his own four-legged crawl forward. He's certain he's just looking entirely awkward, but he can't help that. The floor underneath his hands is cool and smooth, but there are a few long and deep scratches here and there and some rusty-coloured flecks. Stiles's heartbeat picks up speed. He reaches Derek and is just about to drop down and roll over too, when Derek stops him.

"Lick along my bottom lip."

It's less total submission and dominance than the display that Derek and Scott put on, which makes sense because Stiles isn't the one who pissed off Derek. Stiles crawls another inch forward and tilts his head. When his mouth's about a nanometer from Derek, he sticks out his tongue and draws it along Derek's lip. It's strange; the stubble is sort of making it stranger, though he thinks that if Derek's face were covered in fur, that would be even stranger and he'd probably freak out. Stiles keeps on licking at his lip and chin while Derek remains unmoving, looking straight ahead, and if Stiles didn't know that this was normal behavior for the dominant wolf, he'd be freaking out.

Correction, Stiles _is_ freaking out. He's not stopping though.

After a while, Derek moves his head and begins to nuzzle his cheek. "I can feel the wolf pulling at me. When I lose the ability to speak, do not do anything to make me angry. Or Scott."

Stiles nods because he doesn't think he can speak right now.

"We'll have to fast forward through the courting behavior," Derek rasps, for the first time showing that he's been affected by the licking – or maybe by the airborne drug. So, mating; that looked a little like submission or maybe greeting, Stiles knew, racking his brain for the differences.

Beside him, Scott approaches, bumping his cheek against Derek's and rubbing. Derek keeps nuzzling him, sometimes alternating and snuffling at Scott, and sometimes all their heads bump together. Then Derek draws back slightly, grabs Stiles's neck, and God, those claws on his skin. He smashes their mouths together, and they're kissing. Derek is kissing him and there's a rumbling sound from his chest like he's getting impatient and he keeps pressing forward, so Stiles opens his mouth and lets him in.

It feels nice. Warm and wet and tender, and as long as Stiles doesn't think about where they are, and who's watching and about the cameras, he could almost fool himself into believing he's just making out with Derek fucking Hale because he wants to.

A weight drops onto his back, and Stiles grunts, tries to move his head. "Don't," Derek whispers against his lips.

"What's he doing?" Actually, Stiles has a pretty good idea of what Scott's doing, so really, stupid thing to ask.

Derek pauses. "He's almost completely gone."

Stiles gasps, and tries to tell himself that this is good. Scott's mentally in a place where he's thinking 'gotta tap that' and not 'gotta chew on that'. "He's not good at aiming."

Derek drops his voice. "That's...he's riding up. He hasn't really started."

"Oh," Stiles says, and then freezes as Scott suddenly stops moving.

Derek, very slowly and softly, swears, and, and that just doesn't inspire confidence.

"What's going on? Derek?"

Derek shakes his head, gaze set on something behind Stiles, probably, likely, Scott.

"Should I, should I be concerned? Cause that's your oh-shit-face, so I think I should be."

"Don't move."

"That's not very reassuring."

Derek grits his teeth. "I don't think he's in any way attracted to you. Now will you–" There's a rumble from behind Stiles.

A blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment later, Derek is gone and so is the weight from Stiles's back. There's a thump from behind him, and several growls and yelps, and Stiles turns to see Derek and Scott fighting each other like two dogs, or wolves, a twisting, turning, biting, snarling mess of limbs and teeth.

He freezes before scrabbling away, pressing himself into the corner Derek had occupied previously and hoping no one flings anyone else through the room. After a tense minute, it looks like Derek has the upper hand, pinning Scott to the ground and snarling in his face. Scott snaps his teeth and Derek clamps his own teeth down on his neck.

It doesn't last long, but it feels like an eternity while Stiles is trying to figure out if he should intervene – bad, bad idea – and how. He doesn't want Derek to kill Scott, but he doesn't want either of them to kill _him_ either and Derek's warning is still fresh in his mind. In the end, though, Derek lets go and Scott retreats to the opposite corner with a whine and starts licking his numerous wounds. He doesn't move out of it.

Derek shakes himself and turns his gaze towards Stiles. If Stiles had thought his eyes were empty before, it's nothing to how vacant they look now. There's no one home; no one human at least. Stiles tries breathing normally and innocuously in a please-don't-notice-me kind of way, but he's afraid he sounds like Darth Vader and his heart is so loud, he thinks it's going to burst out of his chest any moment.

Derek stalks forward, and Stiles wants to say something like, "Please don't kill me; oh God, I'm sorry if I ever thought you looked like you wanted to kill me before because it's nothing to how you look right now, and I think I'm going to wet myself if you don't say anything; please, please, please, _say something_. Snap out of it." The words get stuck in his throat, however, and all he can do is clamp his arms tighter around his knees, draw them closer, and try not to embarrass himself.

About an inch from his knees, Derek stops. Stiles stops breathing entirely. His eyes lock with Derek's even though he knows that that isn't a good idea, that that's considered a challenge but he can't look away, hoping against hope to find some tiny sliver of humanity left.

Derek's gaze narrows and his lips begin to draw back. He starts to growl. Stiles's eyes do some kind of weird flickering and rolling thing, as if he's lost control over them, but it breaks the staring contest and Derek's growl subsides again. He leans forward, closing the distance, and begins to sniff at Stiles and lick his cheek where tears have started to trail down. Cleaning him, Stiles realizes and finally exhales, starting to breathe shallowly again. The black spots dancing in front of his eyes recede.

"Derek?" His voice is barely above a whisper, but he can't seem to squeeze more air past his lungs.

Derek doesn't react, just keeps licking his cheek. Stiles's muscles begin to unfreeze and he cautiously moves his hand and lays it on the back of Derek's head. That's apparently taken as a sign of encouragement, which yeah, okay, sorta, but not, because Derek moves even closer, pressing himself against Stiles and beginning to lick at his mouth again in a decidedly oh-by-the-way-I'm-thinking-of-sex-again way.

Stiles has less trouble telling himself that this is better than being killed this time around.

He's still far from happy, though. Derek's kinda insistently pushing against him now, which probably means he's getting impatient. Impatient werewolf? Not good, so Stiles gets back on hands and knees, and Derek immediately moves to – sniff at Stiles's dick, oh God.

Seriously, oh God.

Stiles crawls away from both Derek and the walls a little, but Derek immediately follows, pushing his nose against Stiles' jeans-clad ass.

Scott is watching them.

Stiles notices this because his line of sight is clear now; also, he can't miss the way Scott's eyes just bore into him. There's a low rumble from behind him, and Scott averts his gaze, going back to licking his arm.

The whole thing just serves to remind him of the fact that they're being watched, not only by Scott, which alone is pretty weird, but by cameras and the people filming them, who're probably watching this on some fucking studio screen right now.

He, he so does not want to have sex in front of these perverts.

Derek, though, has no such compunctions, and Stiles feels really, really jealous right now because he'd really like to just not notice the cameras and Scott and, and, and the microphones and _everything_. Derek's moving on from sniffing at Stiles's butt to half crawling underneath him and licking. With his _tongue_.

A kind of gurgle escapes Stiles's throat and his fingers twitch. Derek picks up the pace, licking harder and Stiles's jeans are getting kinda wet right now, wet and warm. Stiles fixes his eyes on the floor and tries to think happy thoughts.

Like, what if this is Lydia – no, no, doesn't work. Okay, it's Derek, fine, it's Derek, and they're at the Hale house. No scratch that – doesn't smell like ashes here. Okay, a warehouse; they're at a warehouse – werehouse – and Derek's just professed his undying lust for Stiles and now he's trying to show that, but because he's an antisocial creeperwolf, he doesn't do normal human sex.

Yeah, Stiles can work with that. As a fantasy.

It helps that Derek is attractive, and that Stiles sort of finds him attractive in a might-have-wanked-to-fantasies-about-him-like-one-or-two...hundred-times way.

There's a sudden pause from the licking, and Stiles blinks and turns his head – ignore the bars, ignore the fucking _bars_ – to see Derek retreating a bit and then – oh fuck.

Derek's weight settles on him from the side, and it's all Stiles can do not to hit the floor, because, Jesus, that guy is heavy. Derek sniffs at his neck and ear and humps against Stiles, who just doesn't have the strength to resist, like, three fucking tons of werewolf. He slides and his elbows hit the floor, and he thinks his back's about to break because fucking _heavy_, but then Derek gives a sort of yip and scrambles off his back.

Stiles gets a second to breathe, like, a _second_ because then Derek is – he's mounting, no other word for it, mounting Stiles from behind, and if Stiles had thought that Derek was humping him before, it's nothing to what he's doing now, going at it like a bulldozer.

Stiles has never been so glad to be wearing clothes; he's also almost crying with relief because apparently Derek forgot how clothes work or how to take them off and this is quite possibly the weirdest kind of _protection_ ever, but it is protection, so, fuck yeah, clothes.

He's going to write a love letter to Mr. Levi as soon as he gets out of here.

Derek's rubbing and pushing against his ass, forearms clamped around Stiles's body like a vice and the pressure on his ribs adds to Stiles's breathing problems. He swallows, blunt fingernails trying to dig into the concrete floor while Derek pants and grunts in his ear.

His knees are killing him; fuck, his back is killing him, and he's still aroused and he just knows he's not going to get off because he can't; no, he won't. Not while someone else is watching.

And there he goes thinking about this again.

Derek starts humping harder and more irregularly, and Stiles can tell that he's close, and thinks, _shit_, because, well, Derek is kind of a private person and this whole thing must be about as horrifying to him as it is to Stiles and Stiles's faculties are all still pretty intact while Derek and Scott have been – roofied. No other word for it. Then Derek shudders above him, arms clamping around him, teeth sinking into his neck above the line of his shirt.

Stiles's jeans are getting damp, but Stiles can't think of that right now because–

– because Derek bit him.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

The little red lights on the cameras have stopped blinking. Stiles takes note of it as someone might take note of a leaf blowing in the wind. It's there, but it has nothing to do with him.

(Only it does; it does.)

He's stretched out on the floor, Derek on top of him like a snoring, warm mattress. Not a blanket; a blanket would be lighter, and this feels more like being smothered. The funny thing is that it's not even a bad feeling. It's comfortable in an odd way, like Derek's mass is protecting him from the unseen eyes of the – no longer blinking, no longer filming – cameras, which stand in for the men, which stand in for all people, the whole world.

Stiles drifts.

The world is made of soft colors. The gray of the floor, the khaki of Scott's pants, the color of flesh that is Derek's right arm next to his face, black hairs covering it. Stiles's arm is flesh-colored too, but the hairs on it are finer, lighter, stand up whenever a fresh wave of cold cascades down his back, unannounced, independent from what his mind chooses to focus on.

(His body is telling him that something is wrong.)

"Am I attractive to werewolves?" Stiles asks the world, and Scott, but Scott stares at him unblinking, not comprehending, as if Stiles were speaking in tongues like a man possessed by demons.

What he wants to ask is this: am I attractive to Derek Hale?

(What his body wants to ask is: is that why he wanted to fuck me? Is that why he _bit_ me?)

Another rush of ice goes down his spine.

"Only you wanted to kill me, and Derek didn't. I don't blame you, by the way. It's all good." He thinks he should probably repeat that when Scott's back to himself.

The door to the room opens. Stiles watches feet, boots, Army boots, come in, and feels Derek suddenly tense above him.

Hands, picking up the box. "You looked great there on the screen." A laugh; Stiles doesn't reply, but Derek starts growling, and the boots retreat, unhurried, to the door and out.

Derek huffs and snuffles at his neck.

(Licking the wound.)

Stiles's mind continues to drift.

* * *

"I'm sorry." Those are the first words Derek speaks when he comes back to himself. That is, after he rolled off Stiles and scrambled backwards, back to the corner he was in before.

Stiles's body misses Derek.

Stiles misses his mind.

Stiles's mouth is missing words. It's utterly failing him in terms of running off and distracting people and talking about anything so he doesn't have to talk about what just happened.

Stiles rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

* * *

They're sitting with their backs to the wall, as far from Derek as the cage will allow, Stiles pressed against the bars of the cage, while Scott's body forms a barrier between him and Derek. Scott is sort of awkwardly patting his shoulder and glaring at Derek. Stiles wishes they both would stop, stop growling at each other, stop fighting, stop existing, just stop. "Stop."

"Stiles?"

"Just stop it, Scott." He rubs a hand over his face, exhales. "We can have this fight once we're out of here." Stiles can't play referee and nurse to both their egos while feeling like he's falling apart. He just can't.

"But–"

"Scott."

Scott sighs, stops patting his shoulder. "Right, so, hey. They got what they wanted. Maybe they'll let us go now? That would be awesome, huh?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, "it would be."

None of them believe it.

* * *

The downside of an 8-by-8 cage– aside from it being a _cage_ – is this: there's no privacy.

There's not even a bucket.

There _is_ a small grid set in the center of the floor and a drain underneath, and Stiles is going to relieve his bladder there as soon as he can figure out how to position his body because he's either facing the cameras – fuck, _no_, even if they're not on – or he's facing the back wall and then Derek and Scott will get an eyeful, or he's facing one of the side walls and then either Scott _or_ Derek will get an eyeful.

His penis is not on board with that either. His bladder, on the other hand, keeps telling him that it so does not care and it will soon care even less about the how and where.

Stiles rises to his feet. He shuffles forward, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes following his every step. He stops before the grid.

The cameras are still off. There's no reason not to stand like this – if he closes his eyes – no, bad idea. His aim might be off. Stiles reaches for his belt with shaky hands, pulls himself out, tries to ignore the voice that's telling him that he's having a panic attack over peeing and that this is so fucking pathetic. Pathetic, Stilinski. Because that voice isn't doing any good. It's not helping; it's harming.

Letting go is a struggle. He feels more exposed than he did while Derek was humping against his ass, but when he squeezes the first drops out, it's like a dam breaks.

He shakes off, puts himself back to rights. Would like to wash his hands right about now, but that's out.

When he turns back around neither Scott nor Derek are looking at him, which – good. Stiles takes a step towards Scott and hesitates. Scott's staring at the ceiling. Derek is staring at his own hands, looking like he wants to murder someone and that someone is himself.

Stiles doesn't want to play nursemaid, because Stiles cannot deal right now and he can't figure out how to feel right now either because if he starts thinking about what there is to feel about he'll probably just sit down where he is and start rocking and gibbering.

He shuffles back towards Scott. Best friends trying to kill him he can and has dealt with after all.

* * *

Stiles's stomach is growling and so is Scott's. Can't be good, Stiles thinks. Hungry werewolf can't be good. Hungry werewolf might eat anything in sight once it's drugged again. _If_ it is.

(Do werewolves eat each other?)

He's thirsty, too.

If they try to – they have probably gotten – they might try to shoot another scene with – no, no. Think about something else. Like his dad. His dad's good.

Stiles rubs the palm of his hand over his knee, over and over again, thinking. His dad is the sheriff again. That's good; that's awesome, in fact, and not just because Stiles didn't manage to screw up his father's life forever.

"I think my dad will be looking for me by now." For him; for Scott, too. Derek's pack might be looking for Derek right now. Stiles can't figure out if he wants the pack to find them. These people were well-prepared, hitting hard and fast, almost like a drive-by shooting, only Scott, Derek, and Stiles were standing in the warehouse district, which is on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, and not some ghetto, when the truck came down the street.

Freaking lost, Stiles's ass.

"'Course, he probably won't think to grill our principal."

Scott's head whips around. "What makes you think Gerard Argent is involved in this?"

Stiles gapes at him. "Jesus, Scott. Really? Who else? He's probably been keeping tabs on you, and as soon as it looked like you were selling him out? Bam!" Honestly, Stiles should have been able to see that sooner. Of course, Gerard Argent has to have been spying on Scott.

Question is how, of course. The cameras in the school couldn't have given him a clue about where they were going or why they were going there. How could he have known?

"There wasn't anyone close by when we talked about going to Derek," Stiles states, only briefly noting that Scott nodded. "And you would have noticed someone following us."

"Uh, probably?"

"Dude, yes or no?"

"Yes...no. I don't know, okay? I didn't notice anyone."

In the corner, Derek snorts. Scott grits his teeth but doesn't react.

"Okay, fine." Getting that team together would have taken some time anyway. He has to have known sooner. Stiles leans his head back against the wall, hand coming up to rub his temple. Or maybe – maybe they were there for Derek, and Scott and Stiles were just incidental.

If that's the case, they'd probably have grabbed someone else to play chew toy if Stiles hadn't been there. It should make him feel bad, but Stiles really wishes they had grabbed someone other than him.

He's a bad person and a shitty human being, but he can't help himself.

God, he's getting a headache.

Scott jerks suddenly, looking towards the door. Stiles follows his gaze in time to see the door open and two of the men come in. One is carrying a small bag of – Stiles squints up at him, trying to get a good look at the letters, then hisses when he recognizes it.

"Thought you might get hungry." The man pushes the bag between the bars, careful to keep his hand as far from the bars as possible.

The bag of Purina One falls to the floor, landing with a soft thud. "Enjoy."

He's grinning.

"Fuck you." Stiles wants to tear him to pieces. Scott is growling. Only Derek remains eerily silent.

"I think your lover will do that for you. Again."

Stiles can't remember how he got from sitting on the floor to being pressed against the bars, hand stretching forward to – to do something to that asshole, but there he is and there that fucker is laughing at him before turning his back and just walking out.

Someone's hands land on his shoulder, carefully but firmly pulling him back. "Don't touch the bars."

Stiles twists around, the hands falling away, to stare at Derek. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask why, but he swallows it down. Mind skittering away from the question.

Derek takes a step to the side and bends over, picks up the bag of dog food and hurls it straight through the bars at one of the cameras. The tripod shudders and the dry food spills all over the equipment, but that's all the damage it does.

His mouth is pressed into a thin line, and his cheeks are reddened, and he refuses to meet Stiles's eyes

"I hate them," Stiles says to Derek's back, ineffectually – or maybe not. "_Them_," he repeats, because even if he's confused and feeling slightly sick, he knows that that, at least is true.

Derek's shoulders stiffen for a moment, then loosen, but don't actually relax. He shakes himself, and returns to his corner.

Stiles feels like a boxer, pummelled by his opponent until someone rang the bell and saved him. He sinks to his knees right where he is, finally sitting cross-legged, back to the bars.

* * *

There's something nagging on his consciousness, something or someone. It creeps into his mind through his nose and mouth, blocking his airways like a black film of oil, settling on his synapses, drawing image before his eyes.

He's at the parking lot, standing next to his Jeep, his phone in his hand. He's staring at it, trying to remember who he wanted to call. He wanted to call someone. It's important.

But first? But first, he needs to talk...no, he doesn't. He turns around–

He's in school, in the chemistry lab. He's alone, but the loudspeaker up in the corner is crackling with static, and Stiles needs to get away from it fast. He twists, runs towards the door, out, through the corridors, into the locker room, jumping and – landing in the swimming pool. Underwater, he can't breathe. Needs to get to his phone, but there's something stopping him. He should dive farther down, dive to the bottom to talk to–

He's in the woods, near the Hale house. There's a body on the floor and Lydia set it on fire. Scott slashed its throat. Someone touches his shoulder, a hand dark and oily.

"Do you want it?" Peter Hale asks in his ear. "He can give it to you."

"I don't," Stiles replies, but Peter is talking over him. "I could hear it in your heartbeat. You wanted it. You just didn't want it from _me_."

_No._

"No!"

* * *

Stiles wakes to the same bright light that's been glaring down at them for the past ten hours, a pounding headache, and the sound of Scott relieving himself. He keeps his eyes closed, not exactly pretending to be asleep – can't really do that with werewolves – but trying to cling to that sense of unreality.

It's no good.

He has to face facts...even his dreams – nightmares – are telling him that.

Stiles has been bitten, by a werewolf. An alpha werewolf. He's a werewolf now. Werewolf werewolf werewolf.

"Dude."

It's like he doesn't know himself anymore. Werewolf.

"Stiles."

He's, he's always been the human ever since Scott got the bite, and he didn't want to be in Scott's shoes. Being a werewolf sucks. You're constantly getting drawn into weird shit even if you just want to live your life and maybe want to have sex with Allison and subject your best friend to way too many sappy moments with your new girlfriend.

Your life. Your werewolf life. Werewolf.

"_Stiles._."

"Leave him."

"Don't tell me what to do," Scott snarls.

Stiles's eyes snap open. "Stop bitching at each other."

He turns his head upward to see Scott's standing over him, looking kind of lost, like Stiles just kicked him or something. Stiles sighs, rolling over. He rises to his hands and knees, wobbling a little as he tries to get to his feet. Scott's hand clamps down on his elbow, steadying him.

"Thanks."

Fuck, this headache is killing him.

And he's still a werewolf. He tries the word out on his tongue, can't quite bring himself to attach "I am a" yet. Not out loud.

"Yeah," Scott says, pauses, opens his mouth, closes it again. "Uh, it's not so bad? I mean..." He flinches, looks to the side. "You were there."

"Yeah," Stiles says dryly. "I was. Am. I'm still here. Why am I still here? This whole werewolf thing is so bad for my health."

Scott ducks his head and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like, "Thanks, you're awesome, Stiles." Well, maybe not the last part, but the gratitude was there. Definitely.

Stiles is a werewolf now. "How much time before...?" He twists his hands to look like claws and makes a sort of grabbing motion, like he's groping someone, and crap, bad mental image there.

"The changes are already taking place," Derek replies. "Your senses should sharpen soon and – it takes about twelve hours before the body's adjusted."

That knowledge's likely gleaned from Erica, Isaac and Boyd, Stiles thinks. Derek wouldn't need to know that as a born werewolf.

"So." He checks his watch. He's slept maybe three hours, minus the time before the biting, that's roughly eight hours since infection, and fuck. It's only been thirteen hours since they got here, how could so much have happened in such a short amount of time?

"They might be waiting for you to change first."

Stiles blinks at Derek, suddenly derailed from his earlier thoughts. "Uh, why would I change?"

Scott huffs. "The wolfsbane? On the bars? Dude, remember when you took the flowers from around the grave and–" Scott bites himself off suddenly, darting a quick and shamefaced glance at Derek. Stiles can feel an answering lurch of shame in his own gut.

"When you desecrated my sister's burial place. Yes, go on, Scott."

Stiles doesn't need him to go on. He remembers all too vividly Scott's reaction before Stiles flung his backpack out of the car, remembers Scott's disappearance, too, and his own panic. "Crap."

"Yeah," Scott says, rubbing his neck. "I'm surprised you're not feeling anything yet. My head's been pounding ever since we woke up here, and I've been this close to wolfing out the whole time since then." He holds up thumb and index finger and indicates maybe a quarter inch of distance.

Stiles presses the palms of his hands against his aching forehead and groans. Well, hell.

* * *

Stiles doesn't stare at his watch obsessively only because he's more or less constantly feeling like someone's shoving a hot poker through his brain. This is worse than the time he got hung-over after drinking with Scott in the woods, and he felt pretty much like dying at that time. It doesn't help that everything is incredibly, glaringly bright and loud. There's Scott's breathing, Derek's breathing, his own breathing. Scott's heartbeat, Derek's heartbeat, his own heartbeat. The sounds all of them make when swallowing, the sound of clothes rasping against the floor. A bug that's flying around the door outside, the hum of electricity of the cameras which have been turned on again, the hum of the lights which is slightly different.

Scott licking his lips.

Scott existing. Derek existing.

And then there are the scents. Worst of all, and overlaying everything the wolfsbane.

It drives him up the wall.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thud.

Rustle. Scent of wolf and sweat.

"Stiles."

"Go away."

Rumbling, laughter. Unhappy laughter. "I wish, yeah." Derek leans into his personal space, hands clamping around Stiles's wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. "Look at me."

It's a request, one Stiles doesn't feel like granting. "This is awful," he grumbles. "How do you stand it? It's like the monster hangover from hell, now with 100% more jackhammers in the brain."

Derek moves his fingers to gather both Stiles's wrists in one hand, and Stiles's heart skips a beat. His other hand grabs Stiles's chin, fingers pressing into his skin, and pushes upwards. "Look. At. Me." The words are growled this time, and Stiles's eyes snap open to meet Derek's gaze, a rush of warmth settling somewhere below his stomach, spreading everywhere. It chases away the reddish film around his vision that has been drawn over his eyes like crimson-tinted gauze.

"I bit you," Derek grits out. "You're my responsibility – Shut up, Scott – and I will get you through this." He releases Stiles.

"Not going to tell me this is a gift?" Stiles snaps once he's recovered from the loss of Derek's hands on him. It should have made him feel threatened, but he'd felt protected, of all things, and clearheaded (and aroused too), and he wants that _back_.

Derek sucks in a breath; he turns his head away, a semi-submissive gesture, and that is just wrong. Something inside Stiles goes cold, and he's left blinking and struggling with the urge to duck his head and make this right again. "It can be a good thing, if you let it."

Stiles's shoulders have drawn up almost of their own accord and his head is tilted sideways when Derek looks back at him, and this is just so unfair. Derek shouldn't look like _Stiles_ has just turned his life upside down and bit him.

"It really can be a good thing, Stiles," Scott offers from the sidelines and if he sounds any more encouraging, Stiles is going to cry.

He's going to blame this on the werewolf thing. His emotions aren't usually this helter-skelter; okay, they are but. He'll blame the werewolf thing.

"Right," Stiles says. "Werewolf. Awesome. Awesome powers. Awful headaches, too." The crimson is starting to really get to him, and he's beginning to feel lightheaded and sort of unreal. His breathing is loud in his ears, drowning out every other noise.

"It's starting."

"Starting?" Stiles asks, hand groping for something to hold onto while his vision goes infra-red, and his brain starts to shut down its cells. It feels pretty close to a panic attack. A really ugly one, and – "Oh God, starting." The transformation. That's what starting. He's changing _now_. "Scott?"

Hands on his shoulders, a voice in his ear. "I'm here. Stay calm. I'm here."

This should not be so terrifying. He knows what's happening. This should not be so fucking terrifying.

But it is.

There's a clack, the thud-thud-thud of booted feet, the thump of – Stiles turns his head – of a box being deposited on the ground, the sound of it being opened, the retreat of feet, the closing of a door.

Hands grasp his. "Don't look at it now. We'll deal with it." Skipping heartbeat. A lie. Derek is afraid, and lying, and – Stiles breathes in – some other emotion that Stiles can't identify.

"It's taking your control," Stiles whispers. One of them should be in control and it can't be Stiles because Stiles isn't feeling real. "Derek, you won't have control."

"I know. I'm sorry." And he sounds so sad, and wrecked, and _guilty_.

"Why?" Stiles forces past lips that don't feel like lips, and shakes his head and –

Why is he–

Why–

– red.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** TW for ableism. Harris is being an asshole.

.

.

* * *

When Stiles wakes up, the cameras are gone, equipment entirely dismantled. That's cool, he thinks, though something's nagging at him, a distant worry.

He goes back to sleep.

* * *

When Stiles wakes up again, there are voices and footsteps and clicks, and he's pressed up against the wall next to Scott, looking at Derek's ass. Derek is growling, clawed hands making furrows in the floor. There are soft pops and Derek's growling louder and louder until he stumbles backwards, falling on Stiles, and Stiles is pressed between the wall and Derek's hard body and it feels good, safe, and Derek's stopped growling, so things are obviously okay now.

Something hits his arm, sharp, like a manic mosquito. He raises his hand, turns his head to look, but there's another sharp little pain, and he's really too tired for this.

Way too tired.

* * *

When Stiles wakes up the final time, it's because Derek's slapping him hard. Stiles puts an arm over his face and rolls away, motion halted when he hits something. He squints, taking in the tree trunk digging into his side and the dirt beneath his face.

What the hell, he so did not expect that. "Where are we?" His voice is dry and rasping as if he hasn't spoken for days – or maybe screamed himself raw beforehand.

"Fuck if I know," Derek grumbles. "But I do know that we're gonna get outta here and now." At the last word, a foot kicks Stiles's ass.

Stiles struggles to his feet, turning to glare at Derek. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

Derek stares at him, then turns on his heel and heads off in a seemingly random direction, like he thinks that Stiles and Scott – because Scott's right over there, looking just a bit irritated himself – that Scott and Stiles will just follow him.

Which, yeah.

Okay, fine. They do.

But only because Stiles has no fucking clue where they are and what with not knowing where the fuck those asswipes went, it's best to stay together.

They don't really trudge after Derek, though the thought is there. He's walking too fast for anyone to drag their feet, and Scott and Stiles are more or less jogging to keep up. They make a sorry procession, Stiles thinks, watching Scott from the corner of his eye.

Derek looks fine, alright, if a bit grumpy, but that's normal for him. Scott, on the other hand, looks like he had a fight with a blender and lost, and Stiles…

Stiles, from what his nose is telling him, is covered in come. The front of his jeans anyway and a little on the back, too. He knew that, but...it's worse now than it was before. Before.

Stiles stops suddenly, feeling like someone just hit him between the eyes.

They've had sex again. They must have, and it must have been back in that room, with the cameras, and _Stiles can't remember a single thing_. Like, _nothing_.

Roofied, the thought pops up in his mind again. Jesus.

It occurs to Stiles that he hasn't even wondered before about whether or not Scott and Derek even remember what happened the first time, never mind about the second. He might be the only one of them who _knows_ and doesn't have to guess by the state of his pants and the scratches on his arms.

On the other hand, he might be the only one who doesn't remember the second time. Derek and Scott have been werewolves for longer.

He hears a sort of mewling sound coming from, coming from his own throat and Stiles can't take this, can't take not knowing, just can't.

Then Derek is suddenly in his face, gripping his shoulder with one hand and slapping him again, and Stiles sucks in a breath, finally noticing that he doesn't seem to have been doing that for who knows how long. He blinks, stares at Derek– Derek, who maybe _knows_.

Stiles opens his mouth to ask what he remembers, if he remembers anything at all, or if Stiles is the only one who forgot, but his heart is beating at 300 beats per minute or something, and he can't force the questions out. Desperately he grasps around for something else to ask.

"What... what do we tell my dad? I mean, he'll have been looking."

Derek opens his mouth, closes it.

"_We_," he finally replies tightly, "aren't going to tell him anything, because _we_ will not be found together. No one knows that the pack meets in the old train station and _you_ will come up with something that doesn't involve me." He pauses, closing his eyes, hand falling away from Stiles's shoulder to clench at his side. "Unless you, unless you want to get me arrested for–" He breaks off, making an odd noise, and Stiles has never seen him look so uncomfortable and, shit, helpless.

"Dude," Stiles says. "I'm not going to tell dad that you bit me. Fuck, I'm not telling him about werewolves, period."

Derek stares at him like he can't believe he just heard what came out of Stiles's mouth, and Stiles is used to that look, so he mentally goes over what he's said, and no. He doesn't think he said anything weird. There were no Star Wars references, for one.

"And I don't think people get arrested for turning people into werewolves. The police would have to know about you guys in the first place. It's more likely that Dad would shoot you."

A nerve in Derek's jaw twitches and he abruptly turns and stalks off. Stiles stares after him before remembering that he'd asked a question, a very good question.

What the hell are they going to tell everyone?

* * *

Stiles is manfully resisting pressing his face against Scott's collarbone. It's not that he has any feelings of that kind towards Scott and it's not that Scott smells good – which he doesn't because none of them have had a shower in over 24 hours and they all reek of blood, sweat and – in Derek's and Stiles's case – sex.

It's that the smell of gasoline is overwhelming and Stiles wonders just why some kids seem to think it's the height of awesomeness to sniff it to get high. Because it stinks; boy does it ever, even about fifty yards from the gas station, where they're staying hidden in the brush.

Concentrating on his hearing is worse, though. There are the trucks and cars going by on the highway. The sound of people talking and laughing, or talking and complaining, or screaming even, especially toddlers and small kids, and the flush of toilets, and in between all that somewhere the voice of Derek trying to flirt with the cashier at the gas station, so that she'd let him use the telephone for free.

"So," Stiles says casually, "any idea what we're going to tell my dad?"

Scott blinks at him. "We?"

Oh, gag him with a spoon. "Hello? You were gone, too."

"Oh, oh right."

"Just because your mom knows–"

"Shut up about my mom," Scott snaps, getting a pinched look on his face. Then he slaps his hands in front of his face and groans, and Stiles is uncomfortably reminded that Mrs. McCall didn't take so well to the realization that yes, indeed, werewolves exist and by the way, her son is one.

They stay silent for a while, Stiles thinking about how to explain this and Scott thinking about who-knows-what. Probably Allison.

The more Stiles thinks, the more convinced he becomes that there's no alternative. They'll have to do it this way, and _this way_ will likely end with him getting grounded. At best.

He gets pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps and the rustling of leaves.

"Isaac will be here in an hour," Derek announces, striding towards them. He's making noise even though Stiles knows that Derek can be as quiet as a mouse if he wants to. Like he doesn't want to startle them – or like he doesn't give a fuck that they know he's coming, which seems more likely considering he's looking downright belligerent.

Scott - bless him - actually picks up on that and then proceeds to take the alpha by its horns and confront him. "What's crawled up your ass?"

"You–" Derek starts, face going white from fury. "You're asking that? If you hadn't run to the Argents to sell me out we wouldn't even be here."

Scott jumps up from his position on the ground. "First, I didn't run to the Argents. Second, he _put a fucking knife in me_. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"Oh, I don't know, Scott. How about telling your alpha?"

Scott takes a step forward, almost stepping on Stiles's hand. "You're not–"

"Woah, woah," Stiles interrupts finally, pushing against Scott's kneecaps with one arm while holding up the other towards Derek. "Let's just calm down here." That statement is met with dual glares, so Stiles grasps around for some change in topic. Something to get them off the track they're currently on because this can only end in tears…and blood, and busted organs. "How did you find out about that anyway?"

Derek's eyes only briefly flick towards him; he keeps his focus on Scott. After a moment, however, he finally grits out, "I overheard you in the police station, talking to Gerard Argent."

"Okay," Stiles says before Scott can open his mouth again, because they're getting somewhere here. Derek's gone from 'I'm going to maul you violently' to 'I'm going to maul you'. That's progress. "So, the whole thing was stupid and Scott is sorry – _Scott is sorry_ – and this won't happen again. Ever. Right, Scott?"

Scott nods reluctantly, and considering they've already gone through this whole apologizing thing before, that really should come faster or look more like he means it. Derek doesn't look convinced, natch, but he's settling down a little more. Stiles thinks back to … to the previous day and concludes that a physical sign of contrition might make this more real to Derek, but before he can figure out how to say that to Scott, so that Scott actually will show some sign of – submission (because 'you're not', that is 'you're not my alpha', isn't really an indication of anything like that happening willingly on Scott's part) – Scott drops back down on the ground next to Stiles and crosses his arms over his chest. He's avoiding looking at either Stiles or Derek, but that's the best than can be hoped for right now, Stiles thinks.

Derek's eyebrows sort of twitch, before he grunts and turns away, deliberately turning his back to them. Not a sign of trust; more like a sign of 'look how superior I am to you', which might be true in Scott's case and is definitely true for Stiles – at least as far as physical strength is concerned.

Well, maybe. Because Stiles is a werewolf now. Hah.

* * *

Where were you?

Why did you not call?

Don't you know how worried I was?

What were you thinking, Stiles?

Drunk.

Lost my cell.

Scott forgot his at home.

Dad doesn't ask him why he reeks of sex; Stiles answers anyway because the question is there in his eyes. He cleaned up his pants as best as he could, but there's no hiding the smell and borrowing pants from Isaac or Derek wouldn't have helped because they don't fit him, so.

So Stiles had drunken sex with someone. No, it wasn't Scott. Some boy, from another town; Paul or something, Stiles can't recall.

No, he had _not_ taken any drugs; Jesus, Dad. And his car was parked somewhere else because he got into Paul's car – no, he can't remember the license plate – because he shouldn't drive under the influence.

Yes, at least one thing where he acted responsibly.

Yes, he knows, he's still getting grounded – for life. Or for the foreseeable future, at least.

* * *

A shower has never before in his life felt this good. Stiles stands underneath the spray for as long as he can, only stopping when the water turns from pleasantly hot to cold. He dries himself off, then stoops to scoop up his dirty clothes. They still reek, making his stomach turn unpleasantly with the memory of the cage.

Aside from being dirty, there's nothing wrong with them, but... he can't quite stand the thought of ever wearing them again, and that's stupid but.

But ten minutes later he's stuffing them into the garbage can. When he comes in, his dad raises his eyebrows at him, but doesn't say anything. They eat together; and it's silent and awkward and Stiles keeps his eyes firmly fixed on his plate, while his dad purses his lips and talks about baseball.

Then dinner is over and Stiles is doing the dishes before slinking upstairs, into his room.

* * *

It's unreasonable to believe the video would already be up somewhere.

Stiles checks anyway, and voila. Nada.

He taps his fingers against the surface of the desk, shifts in his seat, throws his head back. Twirls the chair, around and around until he's dizzy and then some.

What he needs to do is his homework.

No, what he _needs_, really needs, to do is figure out what his personal anchor is. Because he's a werewolf now.

But in order to do that he needs to raise his pulse, get angry or something, and if he does that he might try to kill his dad.

Ergo, he needs a … a wolfsitter. Only, he's grounded, and his dad took his key to his Jeep, and he's only getting it for when he needs to drive to school and back, which - fuck, unfair. So fucking unfair.

It's not like he _meant_ to get kidnapped and bitten by a werewolf.

Of course, his dad doesn't know that or this wouldn't be a problem because he could say, 'Hey, Dad, I need to go to Scott's or maybe Derek's, if he's not feeling too homicidal, because I need to learn how to werewolf correctly.'

Stiles is not going to involve his father in the supernatural business, though, because he kind of likes his dad and anyone who's ever learned about werewolves has had more crap thrown their way than they can deal with. And it's dangerous, and he's not going to lose his dad, too; he's not.

Stiles jumps up from his chair and stomps over to his bed to throw himself on it. Maybe if he ignores the internet for tonight he can get some shit done.

Only, of course, his homework would include an assignment where he has to research something online. Of course. So, he's getting up again, and stomping back to his desk, book, pen and notebook in hand. He should really install LeechBlock one of these days, only he can't bring himself to do it.

And it wouldn't keep him from Googling 'werewolf porn vid' anyway. Unless he blocked Google and Yahoo and freaking Lycos, which, lol, no. Stiles erases his search history for the third time this evening and gets back to work.

Sometime around 2 a.m. his dad comes in and tells him to get offline and go to bed. Stiles says yes only because the internet is evil and he still hasn't done his math homework, which he's consequently doing in bed afterwards.

Then he's getting out of bed again because if he doesn't pack his bag the night before, he'll forget half of what he needs the next day.

So, all in all, it's three a.m. when Stiles finally turns off the bedside lamp and closes his eyes, and that's, of course, when Derek climbs in through his window.

"No," Stiles says quietly, but clearly. "Whatever it is, it can wait."

"That eager to kill your dad? Rip his throat out? Eat his innards?"

"I need sleep, Derek," Stiles hisses, sitting up. "Can't we do this tomorrow, oh shit." Right, he's grounded. They'll have to practice when his dad's not around or Stiles can sneak out, so he'll lose sleep either way, but – he's just, just exhausted today. "My dad's got the night shift tomorrow night. He won't know I'm gone, but he might come into my room tonight." Okay, unlikely, and Derek's look tells Stiles that he caught onto that.

Stiles groans, and just. "I'm exhausted." And then because it might help: "Derek, _please._" He drops his eyes and tilts his head, and shit, there's his cock twitching again at the worst possible moment. And there is Derek, scenting the air, and freezing.

Stiles fervently wishes it were possible to die of mortification. He also wishes he weren't getting harder because of Derek not-staring at his dick. His eyes are fixed on the top of Stiles's head in a way that Stiles just somehow _knows_ means he's doing it to avoid looking at Stiles's lap.

"Tomorrow night," Derek finally grits out and positively vaults out the window. Crap. Stiles exhales noisily and drops back onto the mattress to stare up at the ceiling. He's wide awake now, and sleep's about as far from his mind as it can possibly be.

"Why," Stiles asks, definitely not addressing his penis even if he's sort of looking in the direction, "did you have to do that to me?"

There's no answer. And considering the way Stiles's life has been going recently, he's really fucking happy about that.

* * *

Two hours of sleep make no one a happy camper. Stiles stumbles down the stairs, feeling like an extra in _The Return of the Living Dead_. An extra zombie, that is. He stops, almost tripping over his own feet, and puts 'Are zombies real? and if so, how can you kill them?' on his mental research list. Like, he'll ask Derek if they're real, and if they are – and Stiles so wouldn't be surprised – he'll try to figure out how to take one out.

Just in case. Because this is his life now.

"Morning," his dad says from around a cup of coffee. Stiles yawns at him and shuffles towards the kitchen cupboard to get a bowl and some Cocoa Krispies. He places both on the table and sits down before remembering that he also needs milk.

And a spoon. Mustn't forget the spoon.

"When did you go to bed?" his dad asks. Ah crap, he's going into uber-dad mode again.

"As soon as you told me to," Stiles replies entirely truthfully, sitting down on the chair again.

"Okay, when did you go to sleep?"

"Um, at three?" Stiles mumbles, ducking his head. Well, he _tried_ to go to sleep at three.

His dad harrumphs. "Go to _sleep_ before midnight today. You need it."

Stiles nods and shoves a spoonful of Krispies into his mouth to avoid actually lying out loud. The keys to his Jeep clatter down on the table and his dad stands up to get himself another cup of coffee before pulling out paperwork.

Stiles thinks about stealing a glance, but – better not. Not when he's in trouble already. Only the thought remains, of course, and has his leg moving up and down rapidly while he's trying to restrain himself.

It's not like he doesn't have about three billion problems he has to deal with. No need to try and cure perpetual boredom by helping his dad solve crimes. Likely it's about the massacre at the station anywhere, and considering that Stiles knows exactly what went down there and cannot actually tell his dad, yeah. Focus on his other problems.

Like, he's pretty sure it must have been Gerard Argent who was involved in that business with the film crew. Also, he couldn't have known where Scott and Stiles were going unless he somehow listened in.

Stiles tries to remember when they were talking about this and where they were, and comes up with lunch and library. Was the library bugged?

Alternatively, was there someone who could have overheard them, could have guessed what they were talking about, and known enough to tell an Argent?

Crap, he wished he'd been paying attention to who was in the library, but he'd pulled Scott into the farthest corner and there was no one close enough to overhear.

So, back to bugs. Or lip reading. Was the resolution on the cameras good enough for lip reading?

"Stiles."

"Hm?"

"You're late."

Stiles raises his eyes from his bowl and blinks at his dad, then he blinks at the clock in the kitchen.

And then he's jumping out of his chair, because, fuck, he's really going to be late if he doesn't hurry now.

"Crap. Bye, dad!"

Dad sighs. "Bye, Stiles.

* * *

It could be the fact that he's tired, but that's not quite it. Not quite the reason. He keeps looking around at his classmates, expecting things to somehow be different, which is stupid because nothing has changed for any of them.

And, well, things _are_ different, but only because he can now hear what Diane is telling Susan at the other end of the floor and because he can now smell Greenberg's cologne about three rooms down. But all of this is so incredibly normal. Like, of course, Diane is angsting about Jason, and of course, Greenberg's cologne still reeks.

That's all normal, but he still feels like he's so different now, that something so monumental has happened that surely everyone should somehow react to that.

"Hey."

"Fuck, Scott!" Stiles flails, almost jumping, literally, three feet in the air. Almost, because Scott grabs him before he does something that ordinary Stiles can't possibly do.

Ordinary Stiles. Crap. Stiles groans, slapping a hand against his forehead. He very deliberately doesn't look at the camera strategically placed in the upper right corner of the hallway. Scott slings an arm over his shoulder and leans closer. "You looked a little out of it. I know it can be overwhelming, at first." Then he gently pushes Stiles forward, guiding him to their first class.

It's okay, and not. Stiles is easily distractible to begin with, no denying that. Add to that lack of sleep and suddenly supernaturally good senses and well. Keeping his mind on the lesson proves just a _tiny_ bit harder than before.

On the other hand, he also overhears Lydia whispering the answer to her neighbor when Finstock calls on him and Stiles had naturally not been paying attention to him at that exact moment, so what with his super-werewolf ears having picked up the right reply he can at least pretend to be focused on the lesson.

Scott grins at him. Stiles half-heartedly returns his smile and tells himself to pay better attention because that? Was pure luck.

If classes and hallways had been bad, it's nothing compared to the cafeteria. The chatter of the students is loud, clatter of forks is louder, and being hemmed in on all sides is _downright insulting_.

"Guys, back off."

No reaction. It's as if he hadn't spoken. Scott keeps stuffing his mouth and Isaac keeps – also stuffing his mouth, and they're both ignoring the fact that Stiles totally has enough self-control not to wolf out because Emily Wilson won't stop scratching the plate with her fork. At most he'll jump over a couple of tables, rip it out of her hand, bend it into a pretzel and throw it at her feet.

At most.

"Derek says if you don't show tonight, he's going to pay you a very personal and painful visit," Isaac tells him underneath his breath and Erica smirks at him from across the table. Stiles' brain stutters to a halt at the 'personal', flashing through several scenarios of what 'personal' could mean before limping forward to comprehend the 'painful' part of the statement.

Isaac's eyebrows climb up into his hairline. "Huh."

"Shut up," Stiles mumbles, flushing, and Erica laughs. The fact that he had some kind of sexual encounter with Derek, however horrifying and scary it was once Derek had lost his higher brain functions, has done nothing to turn off the reaction he gets whenever something sounds vaguely like Derek might get up close and personal with him. In fact, it might have made it worse because he now knows intimately what Derek's skin tastes like and how good it feels with Derek's hands on him, keeping him from doing something stupid like pressing up against wolfsbane-coated bars.

Scott clears his throat. "I don't see where Derek gets off making demands like that. Stiles is _my_ best friend. I'll help him." Scott's jaw is set in a stubborn line and he's glaring at Isaac over Stiles's head. Stiles closes his eyes. Oh God, no. Please, God, don't let him become the rope in Scott and Derek's little tug of war.

"Derek is the alpha," Isaac snaps at him.

Derek doesn't even need to be here to turn Stiles into a length of rope.

Scott's eyes flash yellow, and Stiles just about fed up with this. "If either of you latches onto me and tugs, I'm going to skewer you both." He takes a deep breath to center himself because this won't be easy. "And I'm going to Derek's."

"_Stiles!_" Scott's mouth is hanging open, which would be hilarious and a great opportunity for merciless teasing any other time, but Stiles isn't in the mood. He needs to learn control and he doesn't want to hurt Scott doing it. Derek's an alpha. He can take it.

Now how to get that across diplomatically.

Stiles turns to Scott, catches his eyes. "If you think I'm going to give you the opportunity to take revenge on me for the car thing–" he pauses. "–and the lacrosse thing, you've got another think coming." He picks up his nearly empty plate, nudges Isaac out of the way and leaves both of them sitting where they are.

* * *

So, he doesn't want to hurt Scott, or his dad. However, there are a handful of people Stiles wouldn't mind ripping apart. Only not really because Stiles doesn't do that, even to Harris, who keeps being an absolute ass.

"Have you forgotten how to speak?"

Stiles keeps his eyes firmly on the desk in front of him, counting backwards from one hundred.

"No," he grits out around 87.

"Am I boring you then? Is that it?"

83. 82. Stiles shakes his head. Below the surface of his desk, he can feel his nails – claws – digging into the palms of his own hand. His mouth is starting to feel funny, too.

"Or did you forget to take your happy pills today, Mr. Stilinski?"

"What the hell?" That's Scott, Stiles registers vaguely, but then he's out of his seat, busting out of the room and into the corridor, and it's all he can do not to move as fast as he wants to because that would just be stupid. But wolfing out right before a camera – fucking cameras, why; _why_ – would be too.

Stiles rushes to the nearest bathroom, the girls' room but he can't care about that now, and into a stall and just sits down on the floor wedged in between the toilet and the door. Sits and tries to calm down, but fuck, _fuck_ he can't.

His vision's swimming red again, and he whimpers, drawing his legs to his body and pressing his head against his knees.

He wants to howl.

He wants to rip Harris apart, sink his teeth into his throat and shake him, shake him, shake him like somebody is shaking Stiles.

"Stiles.

"Stiles, man; come on. Snap out of it."

Stiles growls.

"You're not helping him."

"I _know_. What the fuck do I – shit. Grab his shoulders."

"I can't."

"Shit, shit, just. Sorry, Stiles."

Pain explodes in his hand, and Stiles gasps, surging up and away, but there's nowhere to go and he hits the back of his head against the tiles, and wow, that hurts about just as much as _Scott fucking crushing his hand_. "What. Are. You. Doing?"

"You were wolfing out." Scott is looking at him with a cross between a _well-duh_ expression and some kind of guilty, _please-don't-hate-me_ face. "Pain brings us back."

Stiles blinks because, yeah, yeah. He's not flipping out anymore, so point, but fuck.

Also, _fuck_. "Did I really just storm out of chemistry?" That was so not good, not at all. On the other hand, eating Harris would have been worse. Stiles totally bets he tastes bad.

"Yeah, you did." Isaac says, ever the bringer of good news. "And we all got detention."

Fan-fucking-tastic.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** The next chapter might take a bit because April shapes up to be one hell of a month work-wise. My apologies for the delay. /o\

.

* * *

"Keys."

Stiles hands over the keys to his Jeep with a sigh, and trudges up the stairs. It's a good thing that his dad's opinion of Harris is pretty low and he doesn't even ask why he kept Stiles late because Stiles so does not want to explain that he manfully kept himself from committing manslaughter in chemistry class. That would go over well, especially when he starts in on the part where he was imagining sinking his teeth into Harris's neck.

No, dad; not a vampire, but hey, you're close.

It's awful, Stiles thinks as he shuffles into his room, throwing his backpack in one corner and himself onto the bed. No, scratch that. It's beyond awful. It's... he was ready to kill someone. Really kill them, and he doesn't think he could have stopped himself if Harris had come after him. If he hadn't had the chance to get out.

He can't do this. He needs to find his anchor and then never lose control over himself ever again. Just stay human all the time, no wolfing out. He should make a list of what his anchor could be, but before he does that he needs sleep because his brain is even less useful than normal and shouldn't this have been fixed?

Then again, Erica's epilepsy didn't really get fixed either, just sort of pushed down or something.

A snort escapes him, then a yawn almost cracks his jaw. Stiles reaches for his cell phone, setting the alarm for seven, and prepares to get some shut-eye before working on his homework.

It takes him completely by surprise that he actually manages, and he starts when his alarm goes off because he could have sworn he'd only closed his eyes, like, maybe two minutes ago. There's a funny taste in his mouth, reminding him that he didn't brush his teeth before lying down.

_It's the taste of burning wood and burning flesh. Meaty. Terrible._

Stiles rolls out of bed, rushes towards the bathroom and inside. He sticks his head under the faucet and turns it on, washes out his mouth, taking in water and spitting it out, again and again, while fighting down the urge to throw up or cry or maybe both.

Images swim to the forefront of his mind. A burnt out husk of a house, still hot and smoking. Body bags lining the driveway.

"Oh God."

He straightens up, throws some water on his face before turning off the faucet. The face, his face, in the mirror is pale, eyes blown wide, jaw twitching.

Derek, he thinks. Those are Derek's memories, have to be, and he'll never ever joke about Derek's moodiness again. Ever. Because those images? If that had been _his_ mom and dad and Scott and fuck, everyone he's ever loved… Stiles would be moody as fuck. Hell, he'd probably go on a rampage, and Jesus. Jesus.

Peter.

Feeling for Peter Hale was so not on the list of things he ever expected to be doing.

He wipes his face dry with the hand towel, then throws it on the floor because it needs to go in the wash. Returns to his room, grabs his backpack, and settles down at his desk.

Can't really concentrate on homework, but has to try. He needs to read several texts and the notes he copied from Scott, who is not a great note taker, but it's better than the shit that is his own notes.

Two hours later and he's made some headway. He sort of understands what was being talked about today in most of his subjects, and even managed to complete a couple of assignments. Two left, and one of those isn't due until the day after tomorrow.

He's feeling good, productive. His list of things he needs to do is slowly but surely getting smaller and checking stuff off sure feels very satisfying.

Until he comes to the part that says, _ww practice_. Because it's just a little after nine now, and he has to eat something, and still finish an assignment, and his dad's gone by now, so he could go to Derek's place after a quick meal. Only.

Only he doesn't have his car keys.

And Derek doesn't have a phone, or maybe he does, but Stiles sure doesn't have the number. He turns on his computer out of habit, thinking. Derek didn't say when he expected him. For all Stiles knows, he thinks Stiles will show up at three am. So, that sort of gives him time. And he can find out Erica's number, maybe. Or Boyd's. He has no illusions about Isaac because Isaac's living situation has to have changed drastically.

Where _does_ he live now?

No matter, Stiles, focus. Plan. Find out someone's phone number, do your last assignment, eat something, then call Derek to tell him you don't have your Jeep.

Stiles opens the browser, firmly intending to search for Erica's number in the online phone directory, but then he gets sidetracked by six letters: G.O.O.G.L.E. It stares at him, beckoning, and he types in 'werewolf porn vid' again before he's even conscious of what his fingers are doing, watches the site load, changes the setting to 'past 24 hours'.

The screen doesn't exactly load slowly, but by the time Google's spitting up results of the past 24 hours, his heart is beating frantically. Stiles leans closer towards the screen, scrolling past one link after another. None look promising, most are just discussion threads on a forum or two, and the preview makes it clear they're talking about some older movies, mostly _Ginger Snaps_, even though that's not really a porn vid.

He settles back on his chair, feeling lighter, though his face is prickling as blood rushes back in.

He doesn't even know why he's looking. It's not like it would change anything.

He just, he just wants to know what he was doing the second time. He wants to know what happened. He doesn't like the blank space in his memory.

There's a _tap-tap-tap_ from behind him and Stiles starts, heart racing. Derek is staring at him from the other side of the window, and Stiles remembers that he locked it. He hits ctrl-F4 to close the tab, jumps up, rushes to the window and hastily opens it.

"I haven't eaten anything yet, and I'm not done with my homework. Also can't get at the Jeep because dad has my keys, so it's a good thing you showed up because I don't know your number and that's really inconvenient, you know." He pauses, changes tracks. "What are you doing here already?"

"You're grounded. It would be stupid to drive your Jeep through town." He strides past Stiles to the desk, picking up a pen and scribbling something down on a post-it note. "Let me know when you have your own cell again."

"Right," says Stiles. "Okay." That might take a while.

Derek nods and walks back to the window. "Hurry up; we have a lot of ground to cover."

Stiles stares at Derek's ass moving out of the window, stares at his chemistry assignment, and thinks, _fuck it_. He grabs a couple of granola bars, stuffs them into the pockets of his hoodie and follows Derek outside.

* * *

The ride to the old train station is a silent affair on Derek's part. Not so much on Stiles's because the point when Stiles stops talking is the point when something is going so seriously wrong that even he can't ignore it, but Derek is really silent this time. Really, really silent.

Stiles grasps around for something to draw him into a conversation because the silence has turned from uncomfortable to almost terrifying, and they're still trapped in this car for at least five more minutes. He finally hits on something that should be vaguely safe to discuss, and is actually useful, so he goes with it.

"So, um. About the anchor thing. How do I figure out what it is?" Scott had it easy. Scott's anchor just walked in through the door one day after he'd been bitten. How Scott always manages to be so, hah, _supernaturally_ lucky is beyond Stiles.

Derek keeps staring straight ahead, which yeah, good, because that's the street there and Stiles would rather not end up in a car accident – though he'd probably survive that now, come to think of it. Anyway, Derek isn't answering and Stiles is pretty sure Derek's capable of doing more than one thing at a time. Mind, it was mostly stuff like 'jump and also growl menacingly', but! Two things. Moving and makes sounds.

"It has to be something that grounds you."

"Oh, no shit, Sherlock."

Derek looks away from the oncoming traffic and snaps, "I can't help you find your anchor. It's different for everyone, and personal. Only you can find it."

"Watch the street!" Stiles squeaks in reply, grabbing onto the seat as Derek swerves to avoid mowing down a bicyclist.

"It could be a parent. Or your girlfriend. Or anyone who means something to you." Almost killed a guy, now cool as a cucumber. Derek fucking ice cube Hale. Meanwhile Stiles tries to get his breathing under control.

"Right, so, my dad maybe." Or his mom. Or Lydia. It could be Lydia, Stiles thinks. Wouldn't that be awesome? He can already feel himself calming down at the thought – or maybe it's just that Derek is parking the car because they've finally arrived. He'll stick with the Lydia theory, though.

"Maybe," Derek replies absently. He gets out of the car and Stiles scrambles to follow. The train station seems deserted at first glance, but looking more closely he can see signs of habitation, and some of that stuff definitely doesn't belong to Derek, like several textbooks that Stiles is pretty familiar with. A second later, Isaac jumps down from the roof of an old train to land gracefully a few yards before them.

"I'll be going out." He flicks his eyes towards Derek, waiting for him to nod before brushing past them.

Well, that explains where Isaac lives.

Derek takes off his jacket, throwing it behind him – of course, it lands perfectly on a rickety old chair that Stiles hadn't noticed before – and turns towards Stiles. "You know how this goes. Try to get angry."

"Uh, problem. I don't feel angry right now."

"What was it that Harris said to get you all fired up today? Something about, oh yes. Taking your happy pills. Did you?"

Stiles gapes at him for a moment before feeling the familiar rush of humiliation and anger. "You, you fucking asshole!"

He glares at Derek, seeing him smirk and – seeing that his eyes don't really reflect that. They're calculating, patient. Anger drains out of him quickly, though irritation remains.

Derek makes a frustrated noise. "You have to practice, Stiles."

"Fuck, I know, alright? I just can't get angry now." He can dredge up hopelessness, anxiety and bitterness, but the kind of homicidal rage that took him over in school is beyond him at the moment. "Can't you just, just make me shift?" Peter had made Scott shift. Stiles knows because Scott told him.

It occurs to him that Derek being his alpha means that Derek has a whole lot of control over what Stiles does while he's all wolfed out, which is...which is really worrisome actually because Derek sometimes doesn't think like a rational human being. All the more reason to find his anchor ASAP.

Derek closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can, yes, but you have to learn to force the shift by yourself."

"Yeah, we can do that second, though. Right? Not killing people is a bit more important than getting a bit more hairy; not that I'd mind getting more hairy. Hairy's manly. Only, the werewolf hairy look is actually a bit too hairy, I think. Okay I'll shut up now."

A growl is beginning to trickle from Derek's mouth, building up like a tidal wave and crashing over Stiles. He gasps, dropping to his knees. His pulse starts to race and he's – shifting. He's definitely doing that and he should feel, think of an anchor.

Thoughts of his dad drift through his mind, then Lydia, and his mom, and then Scott, but he still feels that pull, that call and it's getting stronger than ever and he can't _concentrate_.

Snarling.

He scrabbles forward; movement left. And that pulse, blinking red. Dark shadow.

Pain.

Fucking lot of pain.

Stiles throws up a hand in front of his face, but there are no more fists flying at him, and he lowers his arm finally, looking up at Derek's face. He stands up slowly, one hand on the wall behind him. They moved to the other side of the hall, he notes. He can't remember doing it.

_Derek stands in front of him, Scott's next to him. Derek's snarling. Someone laughs._

The air still in his lungs whooshes out of him. There's a tight feeling around his chest and – dammit, not another panic attack. No more panic attacks, please. He doesn't like them.

There's, there's a breathing technique, he knows, he _remembers_ from way back when. Stiles claps a hand on his stomach, breathes in, counting to five. Holds for two seconds, breathes out slowly. Repeats the pattern, starts breathing normally (or as normally as he can).

When it feels like the panic is slowly receding, Stiles opens his eyes again – he's closed them? He closed them.

Derek's no longer looking at him. He's leaning against an old bus, arms crossed in front of his chest, face turned away, giving Stiles the illusion of privacy.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair, then across his face, wiping off the fine sheen of sweat.

He has to get a grip on himself, on his mind, _on his wolf_. If he can just find a way to not shift, or keep his mind, he won't find himself some place, not remembering how he got there or what he did.

"Again." It comes out low and breathy, so Stiles repeats himself, in a stronger voice. "Let's try again."

Derek pushes off from the train, turns his head. His face is blank, but there's an undercurrent of tension. He nods sharply, and Stiles prepares himself to try and think of someone, something even, to anchor him to reality. He closes his eyes, focuses.

"Go."

* * *

It's 3:30 a.m. when Stiles climbs through the window and into his bedroom. He'd have used the door – his dad isn't home yet – but he forgot his key when Derek told him to follow earlier that evening. No matter; he can climb through windows now like every other werewolf. Yeah.

Yeah.

He shuffles over to his desk, stuffs his school things into his bag. Homework won't be done tonight. Maybe he can do it during lunch. He'll look for a quiet place. Or maybe Scott will let him look at his, if he did it, that is. If he did it right. Scott usually tries, but doesn't really succeed half the time.

Unlike Stiles.

This whole werewolf thing is going to fuck with his grades so much.

He briefly considers taking a shower; he stinks of sweat. In the end he decides that everyone will just have to live with it. Derek was right. Stiles needs to sleep, and how hilarious is it that Derek of all people basically told him to go to bed. Derek generally keeps him out of it. Like Scott.

Stiles takes off his shoes, his clothes, leaves his boxers on and climbs under the covers. This whole night had been an exercise in futility. Derek making him change, Stiles failing at controlling himself, Derek bringing him out of the whole bloodlust mindset either by punching him or using some weird alpha voodoo crap, crouching over Stiles and snarling in his face, demanding Stiles's attention. Stiles's. Not Stiles's sudden wolfy instincts that had him blink back to awareness with his head turned submissively, though those were there, too. Though Derek only did that once before going back to just using Stiles as a punching bag.

And Stiles would swear it was because Derek liked causing him pain or maybe he thought pain was a better motivator, but he'd looked really weirded out that one time.

Like he remembered something.

Stiles shakes that thought out of his head, turning to other things. He needs to make a list tomorrow, he thinks. A list with people he could think about, who could be his anchor. Because he needs to find that anchor and he's no closer to that than he was back in school when he tried to kill Harris.

At least he can't really muster much anger either. That was a total failure, too, which is a good thing in a way, though Derek looked disappointed. Stiles doesn't care though. If he can manage to stay human all the time, that's good. Works. Until the full moon, but he's not gonna think about that.

* * *

He remembers their voices better than he remembers their physical appearance. That should bother him somehow because what if he sees mug shots of them?

If he sees mug shots, though, they're not present. He can't catch their scent; can't hunt them down and rip them apart for what they did. For what they made him do. For everything.

No police, a voice whispers. No police, Stiles agrees. Not getting Dad involved in this.

* * *

Scott did his homework - sort of. Stiles stares at the chicken scratches and tries to tell himself that beggars can't be choosers. It's just..."Did you do that on your bike or something?"

"Uh," Scott answers, flushing. And Stiles has been joking. _Joking._ Jesus.

"You did. You so did. I can't believe – _how_? No, _why_?"

Scott grins at him self-consciously. "I'd kinda forgotten about it? Like, you know, _you_."

Like him, yeah. Stiles stares at Scott's notebook. He's almost completely certain that nothing in this whole assignment can be right because how can you think about chemistry and ride your bike and still arrive in one piece? But the only alternative is hitting up Danny and Danny is a firm believer in 'do your own homework'.

He doesn't even think about asking anyone else because, well, no one else is even likely to give him the time of the day. Except maybe Allison, but Allison has been kind of distant what with her mom.

Well, there's also Greenberg, but...it's Greenberg. No one likes Greenberg. He's not even sure that Greenberg likes Greenberg.

"Two minutes, Stiles."

Too late to go to someone else. He copies what he can decipher, writing quickly and almost illegibly, and not really understanding what he's writing either.

Stupid. He should have _started_ with chemistry last night before doing anything else.

The bell rings and Stiles scribbles down the last couple of words, pushing Scott's notebook back at him as Harris strides towards the door to close it. He leans back, trying hard to look like he's fully prepared for whatever may come, only he never really knows how to look in these situations. Should he look bored? Eager? Should he look at the pen in his hand, or at his book, or out of the window – no, no. Bad. Out of the window is bad; he might look like he's distracted and – _holy shit_ is that Derek?

Stiles twists his face away, looks around to catch Scott's eye – not happening, he's busy staring at Allison from afar – then finally Isaac's two rows before him and one seat to the right. Isaac raises an eyebrow. Stiles mouths 'Derek' at him and Isaac shrugs and then there's Harris standing right in front of Stiles and in his line of sight.

"Mr. Stilinski, if I could have your attention?" It's not really a question, so Stiles doesn't answer, which might have been a mistake. Harris lets his index finger trail over the chicken scratches in Stiles's notebook, and Stiles wonders if he can read anything at all.

"I trust that – given the fact that you were first mentally and then _physically_ absent – you thought it wise to catch up on the material we covered last lesson."

That's a trick question if he ever heard one. He can't say _no_ obviously, but he can't claim to have caught up because he'd be caught in a lie a moment later and claiming to not have _understood_ the material... well, Stiles really doesn't want to go there.

Say you forgot. No

Say you had a headache. Oh God, worse.

What comes out of his mouth is, "Sure!" Stiles could seriously punch himself, but he holds back with the whole flagellation thing for the moment. Harris is doing a much better job of it anyway.

It's worse than yesterday. Stiles grips the edge of his seat with one hand as Harris lets lose one scathing remark after another even as he strides back towards the front and tells Stiles to _follow and show his knowledge_. Stiles rises woodenly from his chair, keeping his eyes down because he can't tell what color they are at the moment.

* * *

Naturally, logically, he can't show what he knows because he knows shit and Harris finds new and creative ways of telling him so. Stiles is biting the inside of his cheek so hard, he can taste blood and looks straight ahead, towards the window, trying to avoid everyone's gaze.

Everyone's but Derek's, that is, because it _is_ Derek lurking outside the window.

Stiles tries to focus on him, focus on the way his chest moves as he breathes, on the way the wind tousles his hair, trying everything in his power to block out the sound of Harris' voice.

As such, it takes him a moment before he notices that Harris has finished laying into him. There are snickers coming from some of his classmates, mostly Jackson and his friends.

"Sit down, Mr. Stilinski," Harris says, and Stiles walks stiffly back to his seat.

* * *

Stiles usually doesn't dwell on his dreams. They tend to be on the weird side when good, and on the downright terrifying and panic-inducing when not. He doesn't believe in dream interpretation, in looking at symbols (did you walk through a door? changes will happen!) or any of that stuff. He knows what's giving him nightmares and doesn't need it spelled out.

When he dreams about ripping out people's throats, that's pretty straightforward and he doesn't need a book or some webpage to tell him what it means. That it means something.

It might just be his new more feral instincts. Or it might be something else. Someone else. He needs to talk to Derek.

* * *

Stiles usually sees Derek by day, but lately they've been meeting at night and that felt right somehow. Stiles sneaking to off to the parking lot during lunch and finding Derek next to his Camaro should not make him feel weird, except it sort of does. Like Derek is his older boyfriend and they're meeting for some clandestine making out, and, really, meeting at night would be better for this.

Stiles doesn't ask why Derek is here. He's pretty sure he knows. As such, he just leans against the car, next to Derek, looks straight ahead and says, "Thanks."

Derek grunts.

"No really. I like this shirt, see. Wouldn't have wanted to try and get blood stains out of it."

"Getting bloody-minded, are we?"

Stiles gives him a look. "Dude, you so do not know me if you think that's a recent development. I'm totally bloody-minded. And vengeful. Just ask Scott."

Derek just sort of hums low in his throat, like Stiles has just said something totally amusing and he doesn't believe a word of it. That's fine, 'cause that's what Stiles was going for.

"Like, see, just last night I dreamed I was going to go and slaughter those guys who kidnapped us. Vengeful, see. Bloody-minded." Entirely unlike himself. _Stiles_ wouldn't mind if his dad busted some asses.

Derek freezes for a moment, then licks his lips and visibly puts some effort into relaxing. The wind's still blowing slightly and it ruffles his hair, blowing it this way and that, and Stiles has to fight the urge to just reach over and fix it.

"And if I am?" Derek asks. He lets his eyes flash to red briefly as if he's losing control over himself, but Stiles knows better now, because Derek doesn't smell like fury. He smells cold somehow, compressed.

Waiting to explode. _Waiting_, like he has a plan or he's stalking his prey and, yeah, Jesus, that's it.

"They're human. Let the human authorities handle it." It's out of his mouth like a reflex because Stiles believes, trusts, his dad and people like his dad and if there's nothing supernatural fucking around, this sort of thing is best left to the authorities. Even if his dream self had a different opinion.

"How many times do you think they've done that?" Derek's in front of him now, staring him down, even though they're the same height, but it's Derek. The alpha wolf, and something in Stiles can't help but try to make himself smaller even if just in his mind. "The wolfsbane, the cage, that kind of equipment. The scratches in the floor. You must have noticed them."

While you were on all fours getting humped by an out-of-his mind werewolf. As if hearing what Stiles' mind supplied for the rest of that sentence or maybe thinking it himself, Derek flinches back from him.

And it hits Stiles then that for all that Derek had suggested they avoid killing Stiles by having sex, he truly didn't want to have sex with Stiles or anyone else for that matter and had only suggested it to _save Stiles's life._

And Stiles didn't even thank him. Can't remember thanking him for that, and he doesn't know how to do it now because, because what do you say to someone who forced themselves to have sex with you in order to save your life? 'Thanks, babe, was it totally horrible for you too?'

Was it worse actually?

"Stiles?"

Stiles blinks, noting that Derek is standing about as far from him as possible while still being within normal, human, hearing distance for a conversation.

"I...I think I'm going to be late for my next class." God, he's such a coward. "Bye." He takes off running, turning his back on Derek and taking the long way round the cars, so he doesn't have to go past him.

Surprisingly – or maybe not; shit, definitely not – Derek doesn't come after him or call out to him or anything, and Stiles makes it back to school with plenty of time to spare.

Coward, the thought echoes through his mind again. Cowardly coward.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** My apologies for the long way. Real life has been kicking my (and my beta's) butt spectacularly and is continuing to do so. Many, many thanks to everyone who's left a comment. I'm not ignoring you deliberately. /o\

Speaking of gratitude, I would like to thank evitably, who has taken over betaing for this fic. You're amazing.

.

* * *

.

The guidance counsellor corners him after the classes let out about setting up an appointment, to talk. Stiles is confused for a moment about how she could possibly know about what happened with Derek and Scott and everything, before remembering that one of his classmates is dead.

He tries really hard not to think about how crap just keeps piling up and up and up.

They set the appointment for the morning of the lacrosse game, and Stiles writes it down on his arm because he doesn't have a new cell yet and he's basically lost without a calendar to keep track of things and the remaining copy is on the harddrive of his computer - which is at home. Where he should be because he's grounded.

He says goodbye to Ms. Morrell and heads towards his jeep, settling into the driver's seat. The parking lot is emptier than usual because he's running late. Stiles starts looking for Derek's camaro before he knows what he's doing.

It's not there, of course, and neither is Derek, and Stiles can't figure out how he feels about that. Relief is there, but also guilt, and he's also a bit sad, he thinks, which is stupid.

Stiles runs a hand over his face. His usually way of dealing with problems is ignoring them until they go away, but he's also his father's son even if his dad is currently not really feeling the love - or maybe feeling too much of it and hurting all the more for it, for Stiles's lack of...not _trust_ because Stiles trusts his dad plenty, but for his refusal to really talk about his problems. Only, of course, it would look like a lack of trust - and he's getting distracted.

Although this is still about trust in a way because his dad has raised him not to be _that guy_, the one who abuses the trust of girls - or boys - who're passed out drunk on the sofa. And, while Derek was neither passed out nor on the sofa, he was definitely out of his mind and even if Stiles didn't cause it, isn't really responsible for it, that doesn't mean Derek might not feel that Stiles took - that Stiles...

Stiles didn't want to do that, didn't really give his consent either because forced consent was as good - or bad, definitely bad - as non-consent, but out of the two of them Derek made the greater sacrifice.

He was wronged more than Stiles and he probably kinda associates Stiles with that whole thing now, and that is just horrible because Stiles doesn't want him to and, dammit, he's making this about himself again.

He should...they should clear that up, like Stiles apologizes and offers his gratitude and just says it out loud, so it's there and Derek can, can react however he wants to that. Stiles is fine with it. Will be fine with it, with whatever Derek will do. And then maybe, _maybe_, this whole tangle of thoughts can get untangled and he can be, can finally think straight again and not feel like his head is about to explode because he doesn't even know what to feel anymore, never mind about thinking.

So, that's what he'll do, once he sees Derek again. Hopefully tonight.

* * *

Erica and Boyd are there this night, and Stiles doesn't get a chance to talk to Derek alone.

He still sucks as much as ever as a werewolf.

* * *

"Do you ever get the feeling," Stiles asks, "like your days just run into each other, cracking their heads and giving you a concussion?"

"Huh?" Scott's not looking at Stiles naturally. Stiles doesn't try to figure out what he's looking at because he really doesn't need to look in order to know.

"Dude, hello? Stiles to Scott, we have a problem. That is, I have a problem, aaaaand you're not listening at all."

"No, no, I'm listening. Someone's got a concussion?" Scott turns back to him, trying to look attentive and failing miserably. Stiles flaps his hand.

"Not what I was - you know what, never mind." Stiles turns back to his plate, trying to convince himself that the food actually smells good or looks good or tastes good - or, hell, just gives off a vague vibe of good.

"Derek's not helping you, is he?"

Stiles looks back up from his plate, lowers the fork he was about to shove into his mouth. "He's - helping. I mean, he's trying. It's just-" He stops and sighs, drops the fork on the plate. It splatters food all over the table. "I can't figure out what my anchor is. Hell, I can't even figure out how to transform, how do you do that? And no, I know, anger. But I'm not angry. I'm cool as a cucumber. I'm downright stoic."

"You were plenty furious in chem."

"Yeah, but that's Harris. He's like that potion that Dr. Jekyll drinks to turn into Mr. Hyde. I can't really take him with me to practice." Well, maybe tied up, in the boot of Derek's car. "Look, that's not the important part for now. The important part is _finding my anchor before the next full moon_. I've gone through a list of people I know and who I even vaguely care about - hell, I even tried thinking of Jackson; _Jackson_, dude, and I don't like him at all - but nada. Nothing."

Scott pulls a face, possibly at the idea of Jackson as someone's anchor. Stiles was getting kind of desperate when he hit upon it, so he totally understands. "Okay, so. Maybe it's not someone you care about?"

"Does that even make sense to you?" Stiles asks. "I mean, they're sort of supposed to pull you back and calm you, right? I don't get calm thinking of, say, Coach Finstock."

"Dude, I don't know either. All I know is that Allison is my anchor and I spend most of my waking hours thinking of her, so. I don't know. Who do you think about most of the time?"

Stiles just - just opens his mouth and, but nothing comes out because he's - because the person he most thinks about nowadays, well, that's.

That's Derek.

Jesus fuck.

"What? What is it?"

He can't really force any words past his lips right now, and it takes him way too long to notice that his mouth is hanging open.

It would make sense. Hell, it makes so much sense, only that it doesn't and, _oh god_. "Scott," Stiles says slowly, carefully, because it's really fucking important right now that he doesn't say what's on his mind. "I need you to do me a favor. After school."

"Sure." And Scott doesn't even ask what it is. Best friends, Stiles thinks. Scott may be an idiot sometimes and do really stupid things like kiss Lydia, but they're best friends for a reason.

"Thanks, man."

* * *

It's like every adult at the school has decided to conspire against him. Stiles and Scott are on their way out of the building when Gerard Argent stops them in the middle of the hallway.

Smiling.

Like he didn't hand over three people to some assholes who wanted to see one of them get eaten by the other two.

"Scott. Stiles. I may call you Stiles, yes? Only, I feel that I have become quite familiar with you in recent days." He pauses, waiting for Stiles to make the connection, which doesn't take long at all since he's been thinking about it already. Gerard Argent smiles wider when he takes in Stiles's furious - humiliated - expression, and Stiles can feel the wolf pulling at him. He rams his hands into his pockets and means to lower his eyes, but the wolf won't have that. It doesn't feel like submitting to that asshole in front of him, even though Stiles isn't submitting; he just doesn't want to obviously wolf out.

Gerard is still smiling.

Showing his teeth.

It's a challenge. Stiles's heart beat sky-rockets; reds inches into his vision and he reminds himself that Gerard will kill him if he changes right now. The hunter will have absolutely no compunction about it, and he'd probably be right because there are still a few stragglers walking past them, oblivious to what's going on, and Stiles might hurt them.

Derek, he thinks, and hopes to god that he's right.

Derek. Derek, Derek, Derek. Derek's scent and the way he growled and Derek's hands drawing him away from the bars and -

Stiles comes back to himself, feeling shaky and unreal, but human.

Gerard's smile has vanished from his face. He's looking more serious than Stiles has ever seen him before. "Now, I know that young boys have a temper, all those hormones, the changes in the body, but I would be ever so upset if you couldn't keep your temper, Stiles. It would result in quite a lot more disciplinary action than a simple detention."

He emphasizes 'disciplinary'. Stiles isn't stupid and Scott isn't really all that dumb either, but apparently dumb enough to start growling lowly. Stiles rams an elbow into his side. If Stiles manages to keep himself in check, Scott had better. "I'll try to behave, sir," Stiles grits out. It comes out rougher and lower than his voice usually sounds.

"See that you do, young man."

He turns his back on them, confident that neither Stiles nor Scott will attack, and walks back towards the principal's office.

"If he weren't Allison's grandfather-"

"You still wouldn't kill him," Stiles finishes because Scott isn't like that, and Stiles isn't really like that either - and if he keeps saying that to himself often enough, he might start to actually believe it at one point, even if right now it doesn't feel that way.

Scott looks at him, shoulders slumped, voice quiet as he asks, "You okay?" And suddenly they're no longer talking about Gerard. Stiles knows Scott isn't asking him about his little anger problem just now. Yet, he can't talk about this, not yet. Or ever really.

"Yeah," he says, "I'm fine. I'm like weed, you know. Nothing can keep me down for long." Scott nods at him, accepting, because that's what best friends do.

Then he grins. "Because you get people high?"

And that, what? "Did you just make a pun? Oh my god, you did." Stiles slings an arm around Scott's shoulders, hugging him close and he starts to walk to the double doors. "I'll mark this day in my calendar. Scott McCall has learned to pun."

"Dude, shut up."

"Never. I wouldn't be me if I did."

Scott snorts and pulls away from him as they exit the building. "Right, so. We do it at your home?"

Stiles halts, suddenly feeling a little light-headed again. "I, yeah? Or you know, it's fine, actually. I - I think I got it."

"Your anchor," Scott breathes. "You were smelling so angry back there and then your heart rate went down suddenly."

"Uh, yep, Yeah, it did. So, I'm fine. Thank you. Bye!" He almost jumps down the stairs before remembering himself in time and just racing down - perhaps a little _too_ fast for the average human. Scott calls after him, but he ignores it because he just doesn't want to tell him yet. Telling Scott would mean acknowledging it, and before he can do that, he has to think this through first, figure out what it means.

Because it sure means something.

* * *

His dad isn't home, so Stiles puts the keys on the kitchen table and makes himself a sandwich. He notes absently that they're running low on mustard and writes it down on the sheet of paper they keep next to the fridge. It already has 'flour' and 'coffee' on it; the first in Stiles's handwriting, the second in his dad's.

He puts the sandwich on a small plate, grabs a coke from the crate in the aisle and heads up to his room.

He's not quite as tired as he was the day before and the day before that; mostly because Derek sent him home earlier and Stiles had been totally fine with that because getting his ass kicked in front of Boyd and Erica was really far from his favorite pasttime.

Also Derek was looking even more constipated than he usually did, and he kept shooting looks at Erica and Boyd, and they kept shooting looks at him, and there was definitely something going on, but no one would talk. It all was pretty funny when added to the fact that Stiles had also wanted to talk to Derek.

Derek was really fucking popular these days.

Stiles sits down at the chair Derek usually sits in if he's sitting in Stiles's room at all and isn't prowling around like an angry tiger in a cage, and shit. No, not going there.

Derek doesn't pace in cages. Derek sits in a corner and looks gloomy.

Not going there, Stiles. _Not._

Stiles puts the bottle of coke down next to his feet and starts eating his sandwich, trying for slow because his latest procrastination tactic seems to be eating before thinking about stuff. Problem with that is, of course, that he can think and eat at the same time. Hell, he can even talk at the same time. Might not look pretty, but he can. He's a great multi-tasker.

He puts plate and sandwich on the bed and reaches down for his coke to take a swig. It's his undoing. The conversation with Scott swims back to the forefront of his mind and then the run-in with Gerard, and yeah.

Yeah, his anchor is definitely - unbelievably - Derek Hale.

It should have been obvious, shouldn't it? If he'd just been thinking because not getting angry with Derek in the room - Derek, who's actually pretty good at pissing people off - should have tipped him off. Hell, the one time Derek was leaning over him, probably wasn't some kind of alpha voodoo, but Stiles taking notice of his anchor.

Which probably means that Derek's figured it out before him.

Which means he didn't tell Stiles and, fucking why? Why?

They're so going to have a talk about this.

* * *

Derek doesn't bother climbing in this time. Hell, he doesn't even bother coming to the window, just stands in the yard and says Stiles's name, like he's certain that Stiles is awake and waiting for him.

Which Stiles is, of course. He huffs, but creeps over to the window and out. His dad is already asleep, and Stiles took another nap before attacking his homework in preparation for tonight's excursion. They have a lot to discuss.

Stiles jumps to the ground, landing as easily as he did the nights before. It still hasn't stopped to amaze him that he can do crap like this now, and he actually tries to avoid it whenever possible. Or whenever he's in his right mind. He doesn't want to get used to it and accidentally do it in front of his dad, because his dad would notice. He's the sheriff. He notices things out of the ordinary.

Derek walks off to his car, not bothering with a hello and Stiles follows, sliding into the passenger seat and waiting for Derek to get in.

Derek starts the car, and this is probably the best moment because Stiles will lose every last bit of courage if he doesn't get the words out soon, and then he'll be left with the part of the conversation where he snarls at Derek for not telling him about the anchor thing and he really shouldn't do that first.

"Derek," he says, which is a good start. A great start. Now if only the rest of the words would come.

He's apparently been silent for so long that Derek feels the need to speak, and he should really try this tactic more often. "What."

"Thank you," Stiles blurts out. He's planned to look straight ahead during this conversation, but nerves and curiosity win out and he steals a glance at Derek's face - which mostly shows confusion. "For when you, for when you didn't kill me."

It's a good thing that Stiles has awesome reflexes now or he'd have hit the windshield. Safety belts, awesome things. Next time he shouldn't forget them. Stiles prises his fingers from the dashboard in front of him as the camaro screeches to a sudden halt because Derek hits the breaks for like _no fucking reason at all_ and turns to stare at Stiles. And gape. Like, true facts, _gape_.

"Thank...me? You're thanking me?"

Stiles flushes. "I'm sorry; I know it's a little late. I should have done it sooner." He ducks his head slightly. Derek continues to imitate a fish, so Stiles pushes on because now that he's started he may as well get everything out. "And I, I wanted to apologize, too? Like, I know that... I mean, _they_ put that shit in the room and Gerard Argent probably sold us and by the way, I have to tell you about our encounter with him today, don't let me forget, but anyway. I'm sorry. You probably - no, you really didn't want to...with me, but you did anyway, to save my life, so thank you. And sorry."

"Are you...no." Derek's face contorts and he buries it in both his hands.

"Uh, Derek?"

"Just shut up, for one minute, Stiles. Just one." It comes out muffled, but that doesn't really account for the almost tortured tone of voice. Stiles didn't think he said anything to upset Derek, but maybe Derek hadn't wanted to be reminded of that at all? Yeah, Stiles thinks a little guiltily, that's probably it. He opens his mouth to apologize again, then clamps it shut, pressing his lips together to keep the waterfall of words in until Derek looks like he can deal with it.

He's almost vibrating by the time Derek looks at him again. He catches Stiles's gaze and says slowly and clearly, "It is _not_ your fault."

"Dude, I know that." He does. That isn't the point. The point is, hell, he's not exactly sure what the point is, only that he can't stand the thought of Derek feeling violated.

"No, I don't think you do. If anyone takes blame for this, it's me."

"You saved my life!"

"I assaulted you!"

"You had no choice!"

"Neither did you! Stiles, for fuck's sake. I may not have been in control of what I did, but my wolf was. My wolf is a part of me."

"Your wolf," Stiles grits out, "was drugged out of both your skulls. And so was I and so was Scott. I'm not blaming him for trying to eat me; I'm not blaming you for, basically, humping me."

Derek mumbles something under his breath. Stiles catches it only because his hearing is awesome now, fuck yeah. "You wanted to," he repeats while Derek looks anywhere but at Stiles.

Derek flinches. "It wouldn't have worked otherwise. You saw it with Scott."

Damn. Just damn. Stiles feels more stupid now than he's ever done before because he's usually the one to pick up on shit and not miss everything completely. "You're attracted to me," he says, a little wonderingly maybe, because that just doesn't happen to him. People he maybe sorta finds attractive don't usually find him attractive back. It's unheard of.

And Derek still looks like he wants to throw himself off a cliff.

"Derek," Stiles says and reaches for his shoulder when Derek doesn't react. The muscles under his hand freeze, but Derek turns his head to look at Stiles finally, and it's Stiles this time who has a hard time holding his gaze. How can one person feel so much misery? It's so much that even _Stiles_ begins to feel awful, and - "Dude, are your emotions rubbing off on me?"

"I'm your alpha," Derek replies, which Stiles translates into 'yes, of course, you dumbass.' Only maybe without the dumbass part because Derek doesn't look particularly insulting right now.

"Right," Stiles says, "and the only reason you're my alpha and not the guy who freaking _ate me_ is because you find me attractive, which is kinda on the mutual side, by the way, but let's not get distracted by that, though I think you should be made aware. Anyway. Thank you for saving my life, and _don't you dare feel guilty about that_."

Derek's jaw tightens; he gives a jerky nod, and Stiles is one hundred percent certain that he's still feeling guilty, but he gets the feeling that nothing he says right now will get through to Derek. He'll have to try again in a few days once Derek's had some time to brood.

It's not until they're parked at Werewolf Central and Derek is about to get out of the car that Stiles remembers he actually wanted to talk about a whole lot of shit with Derek, not least of all how Derek totally failed to inform Stiles of knowing what his anchor is.

Stiles opens his mouth to bring it up, but closes it again because his tongue has tied itself into a knot figuratively speaking.

It's...it's Derek being his anchor. Derek who he sorta finds attractive; Derek, who finds him attractive back, and who very definitely did not reveal that he thought that Stiles thinks of him as someone so important that he can anchor Stiles to sanity or whatever constitutes sanity in Stiles's case.

Derek, who blames himself.

Stiles thumps his head against the headrest of the car and closes his eyes. He hears the sound of a car door opening and closing, of Derek walking towards the old railway station and inside.

Can't _anything_ be simple?

Stiles removes his seatbelt, gets out. Wonders for a brief moment why Derek would leave his car unlocked, but he'd probably hear anyone trying to drive off with it. Stiles knows that dogs can recognize their owner's car by the sound of the engine. He thinks werewolves probably can, too.

He should test if he can do that too, come to think of it. Might be useful to have some kind of warning before his dad comes back from work because while he doesn't want to have to, say, hide a fugitive in his room, he also knows that these things will keep happening and he'll need to keep things from his dad.

It would be a terribly depressing thought, if he allowed to let himself dwell on it, which he doesn't.

At all.

* * *

The railway station is empty but for Derek and his gloomy disposition; even Isaac's backpack is gone, though there's still a stack of his clothing lying neatly folded in one of the train cars.

Stiles knows this because Derek has decided to start this evening of lessons by offering him a coke, grabbing another for himself and taking several steps away from Stiles once his new pack member has cautiously sat down in one of the seats.

The next part of the lesson seems to involve lots of staring. Not like that's anything new in general, but given that their last conversation was...not good, and that Stiles would actually like to practice a bit now that he knows what his anchor is, and actually, he should really tell Derek about Gerard Argent...

On second thought, it's not like Derek can do anything about him.

And on third thought, there is a lot that Derek _could_ do that would totally result in a blood bath.

Which leaves Stiles with nothing to talk about unless he starts rambling about something totally innocuous and okay. Stiles is pretty good at just talking even if tempers are flying high and tension's at the max, but at the moment, he just can't find it in himself to pretend that Derek doesn't think he raped Stiles.

"Um," Stiles says in a desperate attempt to get out of this stalemate. "Shouldn't we be practicing?"

Derek shakes his head, but not really in negation. He looks down at his coke and Stiles follows his gaze to see Derek's thumb tracing the neck of his coke bottle, round and round. It's hypnotic.

"It's not always pleasant," Derek says somewhat out of the blue. Stiles gives him his best confused face.

"Your anchor might not be pleasant." His eyes flick to the left briefly, towards the pile of Isaac's clothes and his fingers tighten on the bottleneck.

There's no way Derek can't hear his heart beating at a furious pace; his pulse is climbing up his throat, going thump-thump-thump out of Stiles's partially open mouth. "Derek," he stutters. "I - I don't hate you at all."

Derek's head jerks and he stares - again with the staring - at Stiles like he can't believe what Stiles is saying. And no really, they have to have like three billion therapy sessions together now or something because Stiles is really sick of Derek beating himself over the head and he's only known about that for less than an hour.

"I was talking about your anchor, not - not me."

"Dude, you're-" Stiles's mouth snaps abruptly shut because, because _no freaking way_.

No, seriously, how could he not _know_?

He almost blurts the question out, but stops himself at the last second. If he tells Derek, that idiot is just going to think he's Stiles's anchor because Stiles hates him.

"I'm what?"

"Too late. I think I've figured it out. Today." He remembers how he found out exactly just in time to omit the details that might end in a massive bloodbath. Instead he tells some story about getting angry at school (true), and Scott actually saying something helpful (also true) about how his anchor was someone he thought about constantly. "So, I got it," Stiles says. "I mean, I'm pretty sure. Can we practice, and maybe you could just give me a few seconds more to come around?"

Derek continues to frown at him the same way he's been frowning all through Stiles's rambling reply.

Probably he's picking up on your tripping heartbeat, doofus.

Not lying outright doesn't mean you don't _know_ you're keeping information from someone.

"Fine," Derek says at last, putting the bottle on the floor and standing up. He's trying for casualty, but Stiles is picking up on the tension anyway, which Derek has to know. Which begs the question why he's doing it. "If it works we can get started on having you shift deliberately."

Stiles tries not to groan as he follows Derek out of the train compartment. He really should have thought to ask Scott how he did it with Allison around because he's not sure how he can do it with Derek around and at one point or another Derek is going to cotton on. "I'm totally fine with not shifting if I don't have to, you know."

He should have expected to be flattened against the nearest flat surface. It's when Derek lets go almost straight away and literally jumps back from him that Stiles realises that Derek has been trying to respect his personal space for the past couple of days. Not because he's getting triggered by Stiles, but because he thinks _Stiles_ might be traumatized.

He's having a day of revelations it seems. Hopefully, the world won't end.

Derek is looking at him guiltily for a moment before arranging his face back to his usual gloominess. "And what will you do when you're attacked then? Run away?"

Stiles nods because, hey, that's what people with common sense do.

Derek's smile is disconcerting. Unhappy, bitter. "What if it's Scott who needs help? Or your father? Will you run then, too?"

Stiles shakes his head mutely, and Derek's expression turns smug, though the bitter smile remains.

"Try to think of that then. Of someone going after your dad. Hurting him. Don't you want to rip them apart for what they did?"

Are we still talking about me? Stiles thinks even as the taste of ash settles on his tongue. He closes his eyes, tries to imagine his dad hurt, burnt. His mind shies away from the image. Too visceral, too real. He forces himself not to gag.

He can't focus on that, needs something else. Gerard Argent's creepy smile jumps to the forefront almost immediately, and Stiles thinks 'to hell with it' and focusses on that. On the words he said; on the fact that he had probably _watched_.

And there it is, the anger.

Stiles growls deeply even before he's aware of wanting to. There's a kind of pull on his nails and his ears and face feel funny, tingly.

It's the first time he actually notices. Before he's always been distracted by something else or it went too fast or both.

"Good," Derek murmurs, sounding far-off somehow while still incredibly close. "Hold onto that thought, that rage. Take it into yourself and make it yours."

"I want him dead," Stiles whispers, and tries to remember why he shouldn't. But the words are dragged from his mouth nonetheless. "I want them all dead."

Because they hurt him. They hurt Derek and Scott, too, and Derek blames himself and Stiles just wants all of that to go away. He looks up, and his vision is red like blood, and there is Derek standing before him, and Stiles can't really explain how he knows - it's not smell, it's not facial expression - but he can tell Derek is proud (of him) and determined and sad and so, so lonely.

"Pack makes us strong."

Stiles takes a step forward like he's caught in a landslide and pulled along down, down towards Derek, and Derek stands frozen before him. He's maybe an inch from Derek's chest and Derek's breath is harsh and rasping and Stiles doesn't even know what he's going to do, standing at a precipice and things could go either way, any way, he doesn't know.

"Stiles." It sounds broken, and there's still that crushing sense of loneliness now overshadowed by guilt, but still there, still tangible.

"Shut up," Stiles growls and latches onto Derek, arms going around him, clawed hand burying itself in his hair.

As hugs go, this one is on the desperate side even if Derek doesn't move at first, still as a statue. Stiles presses closer, pushes at Derek's head till it comes to rest on Stiles's shoulder, and finally, finally, Derek shudders and untenses against him.

This is not what he wants, but it's what both of them need, and need trumps want any day.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This chapter comes with a **trigger warning** for sexual assault.

**A/N2:** Many thanks to everyone who's left a review and to all you lovely readers out there. I'm sorry for not replying individually, but real life has been a real killer these last several months. /o\

* * *

There's something familiar and comforting about the way Derek reacts to Stiles telling him about the upcoming lacrosse game.

"You're not playing."

It's like Stiles isn't anything special.

"If I see you there, I'll drag you away by scruff of your neck."

Like maybe Derek's coming around to that way of thinking. That 'we don't blame ourselves for saving people's life because that would be stupid' way of thinking.

"Hah, I never play." He starts pulling his legs up onto the seat of the car but stops when Derek lets out a low growl. "And also, you're getting soft in your old age. Scott got a death threat."

"Stiles," Derek says calmly. "If you show up at the game, I will rip your heart out with my bare hand and crush it before your lifeless eyes."

And here it is, werewolf humor. Stiles wonders if he'll ever become that blase about gruesome deaths. "You're a laugh a minute. Anyway, I'll be sitting on the bench, though. I want to keep my place and I missed practice this week."

"The place where you don't get to play."

"Oh, rub it in, why don't you." Stiles huffs. He's not actually irritated, but arguing about lacrosse is a lot safer than arguing about anything else. Once their hugfest - and it's a hugfest if Stiles says so - ended because Derek started twitching and pulling away, Derek put Stiles through the motions a few more times before suggesting Stiles attack him. Because new werewolves apparently need to learn how to use their new strength and speed to crush possible enemies. Stiles attacking Derek was just a really hilarious proposition, though.

And Stiles would have totally been up for some quality lesson in humiliation and pain except oh, hey look at the time. Wow, wasn't it getting late?

Derek looked at his watch, frowned at Stiles, then turned on his heel and walked out of the old depot. Which Stiles so had not expected, but he wasn't going to look a gift wolf in the mouth. It was likely to bite his head off.

"You're not playing."

That might be an order, but it also sounds like a concession. Either way, Stiles's answer remains the same. "Nope, I'm not."

"Fine," Derek says. He turns right and stops the car two streets down from where Stiles lives. "When is your dad's next shift?"

Stiles has to take a moment to think about this. With all the dead police officers at the station, his dad has been pulling double shifts all week and working overtime and - that's good for Stiles and his little furry problem, but it's not good for his dad's health, Stiles thinks guiltily.

Stiles starts as Derek calls his name. "Um?"

"I asked when your dad will work next."

"Sorry," Stiles mumbles, flushing. "It's been a bit harder to concentrate lately, and - crap." Oh, hell. The Adderall. It wouldn't work so well with a faster metabolism. "Isn't lycanthropy supposed to help with...?" He trails off, waving his hand to include ADHD and epilepsy and asthma.

"It's not a cure-all. If you're under a great deal of stress, these things can return briefly."

Like with Erica - and Stiles had been under a ton of stress lately.

"Stiles. Your dad."

Oh, right. "I think he's, um, working in the afternoon. Till ten pm-ish."

Derek grunts. "Get going then."

* * *

The google search turns something up.

Stiles stares at his screen, heart racing.

It's not a vid, it's just an announcement - a promise of a teaser later that week even - but from the description, it has to be it.

Really how many werewolf porn flicks can there be?

Stiles reaches for his mouse again, flinching as he knocks over the glass of lemonade he put down next to it. The liquid spills over the table and towards the edge, dripping down on the floor. It misses his laptop by an inch at most. Stiles swears and jumps up, grabs a used t-shirt and begins to mop up the mess.

He doesn't bother doing more than that, just drops the shirt in the trash can at his feet so it can't drip on anything important. His hands are sticky and kind of gross, but if he has to wait another second to start hunting down more information about the username he's going to throw up.

_Cryptozoologist11_'s profile looks legit at first glance - a birthyear, some kind of rambling about … Jesus, their thing for _creature fucking_, with a fucking winking smilie face. 147 comments made, obviously not a bot, and the avatar is not exactly tasteful, but not NSFW either. Stiles ignores the birthyear - it's probably untrue anyway - and starts digging through the posts for the other comments. There might be something useful in one of them; some kind of hint about who these people are and how to find them.

It's slow going since he can only guess which threads might interest _cryptozoologist11_. While the next page on the forum loads, Stiles opens another tab, typing in the username into the google engine and hitting _enter_.

Then he opens a spreadsheet on google docs and stares at it for about five minutes before his brain decides to get back online and provide him with more than just 'oh god, oh shit, I think I'm going to throw up, oh god'.

After two hours of reading ever grosser discussions of _creature fucking_ and goddamn _death matches_, holy fucking hell, Stiles has a pretty good idea of what _cryptozologist11_ has been up to in the past two years.

There have been five movies put online since he joined the forum. From the enthusiastic discussions of the plots on the board, Stiles has gathered that all five ended in the death of at least one person per movie - he refuses to use the common jargon of 'creature' - sometimes more. And that's not even taking into account what might have happened to the survivors because, _because_.

Why let them go?

Why did they let Stiles and Scott and Derek go? Why? It doesn't make any sense. These fuckers obviously don't give a damn about what happens to anyone as long as they can get their rocks off, so why? Stiles hisses and jumps up from the chair to pace the room. He neatly sidesteps his backpack even though it's dark outside and the only light is the one that his computer screen casts on the room. Werewolf senses, werewolf reflexes.

Werewolf growling, too.

Stiles stops mid-pace and closes his eyes. He thinks of Derek and the way he smelled as Stiles hugged him, warm and safe and strong despite the misery and vulnerability coming off him.

The anger leaves him in waves, like the tide retreating, drawing his energy from him. Stiles flops onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. He watches his computer switch to the screensaver and thinks that he should really get up and go turn it off, but he can't be bothered right now. He'll do it...later, clear the browser history, too. Again.

Later.

* * *

His dreams are a confusing mess.

He's in school, alone, talking to Gerard Argent. Argent is touching him. A hand on his arm, rubbing softly, gently, while the other drifts down to open the fly of Stiles's jeans, and all Stiles can do is stand frozen, immobile.

"Don't," he whispers, "please," and he's crying, and Argent echoes him, mocking him. He leans forward until his breath is ghosting over Stiles's ear, pushes his hand inside Stiles's underwear and cups Stiles's dick, starts fondling him until it's hard and pulsing. "Come for me."

Stiles cries out.

Derek cries out.

Kate laughs at them, a happy, wickedly delighted cackle. It's the most awesome sound Derek's ever heard. Her eyes are gleaming and her head is thrown back as she rides him through his orgasm.

"You didn't-," Derek groans, and she shakes her head and says, "Tell me to." And her teeth flash in the dark of her bedroom.

"Come," Derek moans as she wriggles and he moves his hand towards her clit, thumbs at it. "Come for me."

She shudders above him.

"I came for you."

He doesn't reply, and she pouts at him. It still looks as tantalizing as it ever did, but he feels no sudden urge to please her, to bare all his secrets and that of his family. This desire has long since been burnt out of him.

"For you and for all the other filthy animals in that house."

She reaches for his belt buckle and Derek snarls at her, hips jerking back as far as the metal frame at his back will allow.

She ignores him, of course, pulls his pants down. He's not wearing anything underneath, never really does. One layer of clothing is usually more than enough in his opinion, but right now he's wishing he'd be wearing more: ten, maybe twenty layers. He doesn't want her hands on him ever again. Doesn't want to feel her eyes focusing on his cock as she licks her lips, drops down to her knees.

"I've always liked your cock, sweetie. It's the best part of you."

Her mouth closes around him, and Derek -Derek closes his eyes, and turns his head away, and feels so fucking disgusted with himself for getting hard in the mouth of the psychopath who killed his family. Disgusted, and dirty. He keeps hardening as she blows him and it's either his grief or the humiliation or both that has tears stinging at his eyes as he comes down her throat.

He keeps his head turned away as she pulls his pants back up, tugs his dick back inside and gives it a light pat.

"Now that was fun, wasn't it?"

"Go away, Kate," Derek replies tiredly, and she laughs that same beautiful, ringing laugh.

* * *

His alarm goes off and Stiles wakes up, gasping for breath, heart racing. He feels icky and smells worse, of fear and tears and the snot that partly clogs up his nose. The scent mixes with that of ashes and burnt flesh, and then he hears Kate laughing, feels her mouth on his cock, feels Gerard Argent's hand on his arm, and throws up over the hand he clamps in front of his mouth.

It's not a lot. He didn't eat much last night. Stiles pulls off his shirt, cleans his face, his hand, his chest as well as he can, and tries not to curse Derek and his horrific life and his apparent inability to keep his fucking memories to himself because, fuck, Stiles doesn't want them. There's enough horror occupying his mind; he doesn't need more, doesn't want more, can't _take_ more.

They'll need to talk about this. There has to be a way to turn it off.

There's a knock on his door. "Stiles?"

"Dad," Stiles rasps, and it's too late to tell him not to come in because the door is already opening.

"We've run out of-," his dad begins before he gets a good look at Stiles and stops mid-sentence. He's at Stiles's bedside a moment later, hand going towards Stiles's forehead. "Are you ill? What did you eat last night?"

"Sandwich," Stiles replies automatically, then stutters out, "I think it might have been the mayonnaise." He's not going to explain what made him throw up, not ever.

It takes Stiles a good five minutes to convince his dad not to take him to the doctor and by the time his dad is out of his room and Stiles is standing under the shower, he's back to being exactly as exhausted as he was last night. Mentally, not physically. His body's telling him he could run a marathon, twice, if he wanted to. Only Stiles would rather go back to sleep, but if he does that his dad _will_ drag him to the doctor, he's sure of it.

When Stiles gets downstairs, his dad's sitting at the kitchen table, frowning into his cup of - tea, if Stiles's nose isn't lying to him. He almost opens his mouth to ask before remembering he probably shouldn't be able to smell that from across the room.

Or maybe he can. Crap. Stiles has never really paid all that much attention to what a normal human being can and cannot smell because what the fuck for?

"We've run out of coffee, but you shouldn't be drinking that anyway if you feel sick." His dad is frowning at him. "You should stay home."

That...sounds absolutely awesome. "Right," Stiles replies. "I'll do that." He turns towards the fridge; then figures that milk would probably be just as bad as coffee, so cereal's out. He's pretty sure he can eat anything he wants to without throwing up a second time, but it's no hardship to eat toast instead. He's just sat down at the table when his dad clears his throat awkwardly, reaching inside his breast pocket and pulling out the keys to the jeep. He pushes them towards Stiles wordlessly, then goes back to his tea, pulling a face as he takes a sip.

Stiles pockets the keys.

"You're still grounded," his dad says gruffly, and Stiles nods.

Just when Stiles thinks his dad isn't going to say anything else and they can not really enjoy their breakfast - god, tea, seriously - his dad opens his mouth again. "You were safe, right?" He's staring at his own hand, the one that is holding the mug with the white and blue stripes on it, and Stiles's mind needs a moment to catch up.

"Sure. I mean, yeah. Yes." He trips over the words, flushes. Hopes his dad will put it down to the terribly embarrassing topic of conversation and not think Stiles is lying his head off because he can't remember what he and Derek did the second time and none of what happened that day could ever be considered _safe_.

But his dad doesn't know that; he thinks Stiles has had a one night stand with some random guy, and yeah. Staying safe. Anything else would be stupid.

"You used-"

"Oh my god. _Yes, dad!_ We did. All the protection."

His dad nods, still avoiding actually looking at Stiles, and - and he's actually slightly red in the face himself.

"Can we talk about something else now?" Stiles squeaks. "Or, you know what? I think I'll go and...do my homework, yes."

Stiles is up the stairs and almost back in his room by the time he hears his dad whisper, "Christ."

* * *

In between clearing his browser history, doing his chemistry homework, and ignoring the smell of lemonade and vomit - he's thrown his clothes and all his sheets in the laundry, but the scent lingers - Stiles is hit by an epiphany.

Argent is baiting them; poking and pushing, so that they'll come after him. It's the only explanation that makes any sense at all, and Stiles figuratively pats himself on the shoulder for going with his instincts yesterday and not telling Derek about his run-in with Creepard Argent.

The question of why remains. It's not like the hunters have any compunction about, say, shooting up a police station and Gerard Argent seems more the Kate type than the Chris type: fanatical and totally unconcerned about innocent people getting caught in the crossfire.

The images from his nightmare swim back up suddenly, and Stiles suppresses a shiver. Fucking fuck. 'Come for me,' alright. His subconscious is awesome when it isn't torturing him. Hell, it's awesome and just as smart as Stiles himself is even when it's torturing him.

So, Argent wants Derek to come after him.

And he doesn't just simply attack Derek because - fuck. Stiles wracks his brain trying to come up with an answer, but draws up short. Unless it's to do with his son and his Code. Is he afraid Chris won't help him if Derek doesn't strike the first blow?

Would Chris Argent defy his own father over, quote, rabid dogs, unquote?

A sudden beep startles Stiles out of his thoughts and he glances towards his computer screen to see an incoming Skype call.

"Yeah?" Stiles says after he clicks on the window. "What's up, man?"

"Nothing much," Scott replies. "Just, have you done English yet? I'm...kinda stuck."

Stiles hasn't yet, as a matter of fact, but he doesn't mind pushing his chem books aside and fishing his English notes out of his backpack. They go through the assignment together, though Stiles pays only about half a mind to it. Most of his thoughts still stuck on the Argents. His distraction must be obvious enough for even Scott to pick up on because Scott interrupts Stiles's mumblings about Hamlet and asks, "Are you alright?"

And no, Stiles is not. He opens his mouth to ask Scott about insight into Gerard Argent's motivations - because Scott has had the most interactions with the man prior to the kidnapping - but what actually tumbles out of his mouth is, "Do you remember?"

Which is, of course, also something he's wanted to know, but he did think he needed to kind of lead up to it and not just blurt it out.

"Remember what?"

And Stiles could lie nor, or deflect, or whatever, but the more he thinks about it, the more he's convinced that Scott is the person to ask - not Derek - and, well, he's already started this line of conversation, so might as well.

Before he loses courage.

"The time when - with the wolfsbane, you know? Do you remember anything?"

Scott lets out an explosive breath that has the microphone emit a really uncomfortable thumping sound and Stiles slaps his hands over his ears. "Geez."

"Sorry," Scott mumbles, but it sounds more like a reflex, like he's not even aware he's saying it. "I'm sorry," he repeats, clearer this time, and Stiles can tell from the tone of his voice and the way he hunches his shoulders that he doesn't remember much of all. "It's blurry; just fragments. Smells and sounds, but … I can't make them make much sense at all beyond - beyond 'ow' and 'arousal'." Scott flushes and looks away. Right, well. It was too much to hope anyway.

The mood that settles over them is tense and awkward, so Stiles lets his mouth run away with him again. "And 'oooh, yummy human', I hope."

Scott snorts at him. "You hope what?"

"Hey, I'm awesome. I probably even taste awesome. Are you saying I wouldn't?"

"I'm not sure that's something you should be happy about."

"I take comfort in the small victories in life."

"The Tastiest Human Award."

"Yup." Or werewolf now; whatever. "So," Stiles says after a pause while Scott looks like he's trying to think of what to say or maybe trying not to say something he wants to say. "You needed something?"

Scott sighs and slumps back into his chair. "Yeah, about that. I-" he trails off, rubbing the base of his hand over his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. "Gerard Argent was here."

"Here," Stiles repeats blankly, feeling his cheeks go numb and tingly as the blood drains from them.

"In my room, yeah, and the kanima was strangling my mom. He's got control over it, him, now."

"Oh my god, is she-?"

"She's fine," Scott interrupts. "Well, 'fine'." He does the scare quotes around fine, and Stiles knows that kind of fine really well. "She says she wants me to do whatever Gerard wants me to do."

And now they're back to square one. Stiles lets out a short barking laugh and buries his face in his hands. Fuck, he wouldn't even really blame Scott if Scott did whatever Gerard wanted from him, like drawing Derek into a trap.

"I'm not going to, though," Scott says, belligerent like he thinks Stiles would think he would, which Stiles does. "I mean, I am, but not like that."

Yeah, that made total sense. "And now again in English, Scott."

Scott leans forward towards the screen and drops his voice like they're sitting next to each other, talking in class, and not over the internet. Stiles finds himself leaning in, too.

"I think, he's sick. He smells of cancer."

"Cancer has a smell?"

"Yeah, it's..." Scott makes a face. "Doesn't really matter. I got my hands on his pillbox and I swapped the contents out. I meant to tell you - and Derek - but then the whole, the whole kidnapping thing happened."

"Okay," Stiles says slowly, grappling with the fact that Scott is apparently trying to kill Gerard Argent.

He tries to find some sense of maybe scruples or horror in himself at the thought, but there's nothing but a slow burn of satisfaction.

"Okay," he repeats, "but I don't think we can wait that long. And he's going to fill up his prescription at one point."

"We're not. We'll have to get Derek to go after him now."

"Dude," Stiles hisses. "You know that this is what he fucking _wants_. He'll be prepared for him!"

"Yeah, exactly!"

Stiles stares at him for a moment, then pulls off his headphones and disconnects from Skype. He doesn't know, can't remember, the point when the thought of Derek getting hurt or dead went from 'that wouldn't be good' to 'cannot even contemplate', but he's in that state of mind now and if he has to hear Scott talking casually about throwing Derek to the wolves - hah. Hah! - for a second longer he's going to do something. Like maybe start howling because that little ball of instincts inside him is screeching in fear and terror at the thought. And Stiles would think that maybe the wolf inside him is responsible for all of what he's feeling, but it's not. He knows it's not.

"This isn't some kind of Stockholm thing, is it?" he says out loud. He pokes at the thought, trying to distract himself and the wolf from _the Alpha might be hurt, do something, danger, do something_.

Not that possibly feeling more than simple attraction, more than a simple _crush_, for Derek is in any way a soothing thought. The only other non-family member he's ever been this worried about is Lydia (and Scott, but Stiles doesn't think about Scott because the wolf starts to snarl and rage at the name now).

Man, Stiles thinks. And, fuck, and then he actually whimpers, a low whine that doesn't sound very human at all.

* * *

At about seven p.m. Stiles starts to get a bit jittery. His dad'll be home in four hours and if they want to get in some practice, Derek will have to show up soonish.

At eight p.m., he's given up on doing anything but reading a webcomic because he keeps looking at the clock every sixty seconds or so.

At eight thirty, he's staring at the screen of his phone, trying to convince himself that Derek is totally fine – fucking thanks, Scott – and just maybe forgot or something.

At 8:45 he sends a text.

Ten minutes later, Derek replies with "busy. tomorrow".

Stiles goes to sleep early.

* * *

On Sunday, Derek cancels on him again.


End file.
